


Chaos & Creation In My Backyard

by wicked_annabella



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cheating, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, RPF, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 132,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22673923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wicked_annabella/pseuds/wicked_annabella
Summary: In the summer of 1991, John Lennon was 17 years old and ready for the time of his life playing in his shitty metal band, chasing older girls, and flipping burgers, but the arrival of a mysterious younger boy from London would change life as he knew it....Twelve years later, it seemed like Paul McCartney's life had finally reached the kind of normalcy he'd always craved; he has a job as a session musician for Abbey Road Studios, he's about to marry up-and-coming TV star Jane Asher, and has the best friends in the world. Unfortunately, it seems the rearrival of an old friend from Liverpool is going to throw a wrench into all of that.
Relationships: Cynthia Lennon/John Lennon, Jane Asher/Paul McCartney, John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 193
Kudos: 267





	1. I've Just Seen a Face

It was strange what the memory retains.

When he sat and thought about it- _really_ thought about it- there was so much of his life that had already receded somewhere deep inside him. Those memories stayed with him, of course, but it wasn't like he remembered what he had for dinner on the 23rd of September last year, or what his finals had been like his last year of school, or even the names of all his girlfriends. Well. That last one was a bit worse, comparably. But hell, 29 years was a long fucking time to be up and walking around on this Earth and remember every goddamn thing that happened to him.

 _The point being,_ memory was fickle, and random, and altogether completely unreliable, but there were two months in his life, over a decade ago now, that he remembered with as much perfect clarity as what happened last week, and he remembered these two months because of one boy.

Two months, he had carried with him over a decade, through college and marriage and a baby and countless jobs and all else, and he carried them with him because of one boy.

That stupid git.

...

In the summer of 1991, John was 17 years old and an absolute terror. He was the scourge of his private world and quite proud of it: against his overbearing aunt Mimi, his dead-end schoolteachers, the bloody police, he yanked and bolted against anyone and everyone. And now, for the first time in his life, he was completely free. He'd left secondary school at the end of June, and now the stretch of time he had until he started at the art institute in September opened up to him like a wide yawning grin. It was to be the best summer of his entire life so far; he'd preemptively decided this, of course. He was now a bona-fide adult, ready to kick it all off with a summer soaked in beer and girls and music and no one to tell him to shut up.

When he wasn't working at this stupid fucking job, of course.

The job at the newly minted McDonald's grease junk was Mimi's idea, of course. Too paraylzed by the thought of him not doing something for such a long period of time, she had sent him to the streets the first Saturday after he'd finished school to go find a job. It went without saying, but McDonald's was not his first choice. Not even close. Unfortunately, as a 17 year old with no experience it was a touch hard to find a place to hire him, and so he got to make his choices from the bevvy of nasty pit stains that was Liverpool's fast food strip. McDonald's was the only that would hire him, somewhat embarrassingly. So, every weekday from 10am to 4pm he sold his soul in the most humiliating fit of all time all so Mimi would leave him be. The things he did for that woman.

It was on one such of these soul-selling mornings that he met the boy who would come to haunt him through an entire lifetime, although looking back, the meeting itself was somewhat anti-climactic.

"He plays the fookin' guitar."

This was the way Ivan had introduced him. It was a sticky Tuesday morning at the very beginning of July, and John was slumped over the counter wondering if he could fashion one of the plastic straws into a shiv with which to stab himself when Ivan had blown in the doorway looking _very_ excited. Much too excited, in retrospect, and then he said that dumb thing, and stared at John with so much expectancy that he wanted to punch him in the face.

"Who," he said flatly, like it really wasn't a question. Ivan just shook his head quickly, never losing that stupid grin on his face. He then shoved a boy in front of him, like a prize cow at a county fair or something.

John took one look at the boy- his first look, ever...and didn't feel much of anything. He felt contempt, he supposed, and annoyance at Ivan.

"Who the fuck is this?" he scowled, and the boy gulped.

"It's the kid- John it's the kid I was talking about, he fucking _shreds_ , dude, Christ he's- he plays the guitar and he is so good! He's like- like fucking Jimmy Page or, uh, Van Halen- he's Slash, Christ he's a fucking _God_ at guitar!"

This supposed Jimmy Page/Van Halen/Slash/God incarnate hybrid did not look like he was good at the guitar. He did not necessarily look like he'd ever _heard_ a guitar, either. Under the unforgiving McDonald's fluorescents, he was a bit funny looking. He didn't look a day over 12, and had a face chubby with baby fat. His ears and eyes seemed ridiculously large in comparison to a tiny button nose, as though the rest of his face hadn't quite caught up in size yet, poking out from under an uncombed lump of hair that looked like it might have once been a bowlcut. The aforementioned guitar he was supposedly so good at was strapped to his back, and- God bless him- he was tugging at both straps like a Boy Scout about to go on his first hike. The oversized guitar case really only underscored how vertically challenged the poor squirt was, and as he finally raised his eyes to meet John's there was such latent terror residing in his expression that it almost struck a twinge of pity in his stomach. The moment passed, however.

"You play the guitar," he said, again, not really a question, and quirked an eyebrow at the kid.

He saw him gulp exaggeratedly, then nod quickly. John shot his gaze over to Ivan, settling into a frown.

"What is this, man? Don't bully the poor kid. Return him home now, I'm sure his folks are shitting themselves with terror."

"Oi, fuck off, don't be a twat. It's not a joke. He's _excellent_. He is a _superb_ guitar player-"

"Saying excellent and superb are not enough to make me think anything, idiot-"

"Christ, would ye shut your gob for a moment? He's staying in the house next to mine, I've heard him play and he's fookin' _good_."

John sighed beleagueredly, then let his gaze fall back to the kid. "What say ye, child?"

The kid's face immediately turned beet-red as soon as John's attention was on him. "Oh...uh...I mean, I- I play the guitar, er. I play, yeah," he said, and seemed to emphasize this by awkwardly readjusting the straps of his guitar case over his shoulders, still red as a firetruck and folding further into himself. John stared at him blankly, then sighed and ran his hand across his face.

"Ivan, what the hell is the point of this? You know I have a guitar player, and-" he leaned across the counter, hissing his words with a little more conviction "-he is past the age of puberty."

Much respect to him, the boy didn't budge at this remark. If anything, he stood up a bit straighter. "I play the guitar," he repeated. "I'm here for the summer, and I'd like to join your band."

Well, that had not _quite_ been what John had expected the kid to say, and even though his trembling voice that resided right on the very edge of cracking was angering him for some reason, there was something unusually bold in such a statement as that that he had to admit, he was slightly intrigued. However, he wasn't going to let the kid know that.

"What makes you think that would ever happen?" John asked coolly, stretching his arms across the counter. Even though it might not have felt like it at the time, it had not been much longer ago that he himself had been the same age the boy was then, and the terror he remembered having of the older boys remained with him, and so he unconsciously mirrored their practiced actions of menace. Again, if it fazed the kid, he sure as hell didn't show it.

"Because I'm better than whatever guitar player you've got now."

That actually got a little kick of laughter out of him. He looked at Ivan, as though for backup in this semi-ridiculous argument, but the other boy only shrugged. "I'm not sure what to tell you, man. Paul's the real deal."

"Paul, is it?" John repeated, getting a feel for the taste of the name in his mouth. Paul, Paul, Paul, little Paulie who quite unfortunately resembled more and more a girl the longer he got a look at him. It was those bloody doe eyes- could probably get away with murder with such big eyes as those, but could he replace an 18-year-old Lidpudlian guitarist? "Well, you're not from here, Paulie, so where are you from?"

"London," he replied, though not with as much gusto. John couldn't blame him, but he rolled his eyes all the same.

"Christ, have you been sent here as some sort of work labor prison deal or something?" he quipped flatly, peeling himself off the counter as he heard the doorbell ring again. A middle-aged woman and a little boy walked up to the counter and Ivan and Paul politely stepped back as to let John actually do his job for once. As he rang the lady up he kept stealing glances at Paul, trying to actually size up what this kid's deal was. God, he was dressed quite funnily too. He was wearing tan corduroy trousers and an offensively ugly argyle sweater that each had to have dated back to the early 1970s. Who the fuck was this kid? A seven-year-old Southerner dressed like a geriatric that kindly and assuredly informed John that he could outplay an adult man on the guitar in his band. The more he thought about it, the stranger it became. The entire situation was almost laughable in its idiocy. But still he was entranced by Paul, and not for the first time really, really wanted to hear him play whatever was in that oversized guitar case of his.

The lady and the kid came and went, his coworkers made the rounds wiping tables and whipping sani rags at him, more customers started cycling through, and the lunch rush came into full swing. Paul and Ivan took a seat in the very back of the restaurant, beside the big window, and John tried and failed not to watch and desperately imagine what their conversation was like. They ordered food about an hour after initially arriving, and when John trudged it back to their table he made no show of pretending he wasn't grossly interested in why this Paul kid had so much goddamn confidence.

"He just knows who he is, dude. He's the smartest little fucker I've ever met."

This was said between oversized bites of a Big Mac. John once again looked quizzically between the two of them, then finally asked, "How old are you, anyway?"

"I just turned 14 last month," Paul said, a bit bristly. "I've always been told I'm advanced for my age, though."

"Sure," John grimaced, a bit perplexed and strangely weirded out to know the twat was only three years younger than him. He looked quite a bit younger, as though that made any difference.

Paul and Ivan left sometime during the lunch rush, unbeknownst to John, and the complete lack of a goodbye pissed him off a bit, but he tried not to dwell on it any more than anything else he'd spent all day dwelling on. The stupid twat Paul's big doe eyes lurked in every burger, deep fryer, milkshake machine for the rest of his godforsaken shift. He tried to think practically about it. Say this kid savant was even half as good as Ivan was talking him up. Scratch that, say he was _twice_ as good as Ivan said. It wouldn't matter. He would not- he _could_ not- have such a young, weird-looking kid in the band. He just couldn't. Not even being lead singer gave him authority to make decisions like that. The fact of the matter was that the other guys would get one look at poor little Paulie and send him crying out the door. They were good musicians and all, and supported the image he was into and whatnot, but fucking hell, were they brutal. Sometimes they were even too much for John. And that was saying something. So no, Paul was not replacing Stuart.

The Hellcats (formally of the Screaming variety until a tentative band vote last year that decided it was a bit of overkill) were comprised of John (lead singer and main brainpower), Stuart (lead guitar and eye candy, to be honest), Pete (er, drums) and...no bassist. Well, that was a bit of their main issue. The Hellcats' former bassist was now currently in America doing God knows what that could be so much more important than the duty they all held to the Hellcats' name. It was a passion project between the four boys coming up on three years old by the end of September, and they (minus fucking Robert Loeb) were enormously proud and devoted to the band. People weren't just allowed to join like that. Especially when the people in question were little weirdo 14-year-old Paulie of London. It just would not fly.

Eventually his hellshift dwindled down and he was, once again, a freewheelin' man, walking with the wind in his face to his car. He'd just gotten his license two months before, and the car had been a graduation gift from Julia. His heart stung a bit at the thought of his mother; he wouldn't say things between them were necessarily good, at the moment. They'd gotten into a vicious fight the end of last week, over something or another he could barely remember, but he still felt raw from it. Their relationship confounded him, and it was still hard to tell at times what to do with all the anger he harbored over being abandoned for so long. It made him feel sick, to be honest. But despite these thoughts encroaching on him, for every other reason in the world, he should've been happier than he was- for chrissakes, he was going on a date tonight, with an older girl- but there was something gnawing in the back of his brain that just would not quit. The gnawing continued along his drive home, chomped at grey matter as he depressedly smoked on the back stoop, tickled synapses as he tried to get ready for his date.

The girl's name was Andie. She was two years older than him and had the most beautiful breasts John had ever seen. Ironically, she had met him at one of the Hellcats' shows, and he'd been able to somewhat swindle her into thinking he was already a year into school at the art institute. It was unclear so far how much this would come back to bite him in the arse. But still, for now, he was entirely prepared to have a lovely night eating fish and chips and driving around the back streets looking for somewhere private to snog in his car. That last bit made him especially anticipatory, considering the aforementioned beautiful breasts she had. But. Still. Something was crawling around in his mind that refused to let up. It pissed him off. He stood in front of the sink and dunked his face in water and was still angry at something and he didn't know what.

Well, alright. The Hellcats needed a bassist. Desperately. So let's say this Paul kid played the guitar like a freak of nature- that would have to make him at least adequate at the bass, logically. Fuck. Scratch all of that. Paul wasn't joining the fucking band.

...

"Paul isn't joining the fucking band."

That was Stuart. They were three hours deep in the hole of a shitty, shitty rehearsal, and at their very last wits' with each other. To be honest, about 75% of the reason they were so shitty was the complete lack of a bassist. John had been the first one to point this out, and Pete had somewhat begrudgingly agreed to it. Stuart did not; in fact, he doubled down in insisting it was their "thing" as a band, and that adding an unnecessary bassist would break everything the Hellcats had come to represent. John had pointed out rather astutely that the Hellcats had been cofounded by a bassist and that up until three months ago had _always_ been a band with a bassist, so it was a bit uninformed to say Rob's departure was their "thing." That had, unsurprisingly, pissed Stuart off. Hence the escalation into the current argument, which had broken into Paul-related territory by a sheepish John's ungraceful doing.

"I just don't get it," Stuart said, which was something really fucking annoying he liked to repeat a lot during arguments. "Last week you're talking about this 'goofy-looking child twat' Ivan's friends with and how he had the gall to ask to join our band and this week you're actually fucking taking it seriously?"

Put like that, it didn't necessarily sound good. But the more he'd thought about it (unwillingly, admittedly), the more sense it seemed to make. "Listen, for a minute, Chrissakes, if you'd just listen to what I'm trying to say instead of going off yer gob every available moment."

Stuart stared at him with an atomic sheen of anger in his eyes but did, bless him, stop talking. He folded his arms, looked back at Pete (who was frustratingly quiet, as per usual), and shrugged at John as to continue. He took a deep breath.

"Well...we've got this Orange 17 gig in September, right?" Both boys shrugged in concession. "Well, yeah, my point basically being that if our rehearsals all summer continue to be this flamingly shitty than it's gonna be a bad fuckin' gig, right?" Again, both boys shrugged in concession, albeit more defeatedly. "We need a bass, Stu, I know you don't think we do but they exist in rock bands for a reason and we need it. You think it's a fuckin' _coinkidink_ that we've turned to pure shite since Rob fucked off to America? _No!_ The bass is the heart of any good rock fit, any imbecile knows that, and the fact of the matter is that essentially any old imbecile can play a few fucking notes on the bass guitar, which is all we need. So. Make sense?"

They seemed to ponder this for a moment, and John felt momentarily successful until Stuart coughed and said, "So why's it got to be this fuckin' Paulie kid, then?"

Er. Good question. John's mind reeled and for a second he came up completely blank: why _did_ it have to be Paul? He was not entirely prepared to answer that question, so he just shook his head violently.

"Well, who else could we get? I mean I know I said the bass is easy but- I mean we have to maintain some level of artistic integrity, we're not shite, and Ivan said Paul was 'the real deal.'"

"At the guitar."

"Same fookin' difference!"

Stuart looked aghast for a moment, and fixed him with the most judgemental look he'd ever received. "Are you off yer fuckin' head? You uneducated-"

"Still! Christ, listen listen listen-" and with that he bolted upright in his chair, a wild grin unintentionally taking over his face. "It's so simple, listen. We'll have Paul in here tomorrow and he'll give us a little audition. If he's as good as Ivan says than we've got ourselves a temporary bassist; if he's shite than we get to bully the fuck out of a little kid. C'mon. It's a win-win, Stu. Just have a little faith. Pete?"

Pete did not look amused with the situation, although he rarely did. He shrugged again.

"Whatever makes us sound less like fuckin' cow shite," he said gruffly. John let out a maniac laugh. Stuart groaned and buried his face in his hands.

And that was that.

...

A series of phone calls later and Paul had unceremoniously arrived on the doorstep of Pete's house on a sunny afternoon two days later. They were sitting stiffly in the living room when the doorbell rang, pretending that they all didn't feel horribly awkward about the entire situation, and immediately all eyes in the room shot to John. He rolled his eyes and stood up.

Paul was standing on the doorstep with the same enormous goddamn guitar case shrouding his figure. He'd forsaken the corduroy trousers for jeans, thank God, and was wearing a slightly ratty and extremely oversized black sweater. His hair appeared to have been combed since the McDonald's encounter, although it suddenly occurred to John that he had yet to see the boy without his guitar case. For all he knew, he could be a hunchback under there. It was entirely possible, given how much smaller he was than it. He stared up at John with the same wild, terrified eyes, and lowered his hand from where it was still poised over the doorbell.

"Hullo," he managed weakly.

"Are you just going to stand there?" John bit back, sounding nastier than he intended. "We haven't got all day."

Paul's generally affable (read: stupid) expression settled into something a bit off-putting as he shoved him through into the living room. Said living room was a horrendous affair; it appeared that Pete's mother's interior decorating inspiration swung towards the extremely pink and frilly. Pete and Stuart sat on either end of an over-stuffed white-and-pink flowered sofa with approximately 17,000 frilly pillows; John sat between them, and gestured for Paul to take the hot pink loveseat across from them. The boy slowly and unsurely removed his guitar case (no hunchback, seemingly) and sat down.

"Er...well, good afternoon," Stuart said through gritted teeth. "So you're Ivan's neighbor, aye?"

"Just for the summer," he mumbled quietly. From this point on it could go without saying that most everything Paul said was 'mumbled quietly.'

"Oh?" John prodded.

"Aye. I, uh...my auntie and uncle are Ivan's neighbors. I'm just spending the summer with them." He paused. "I live in London the rest of the time."

Stuart snorted, and Paul's eyes flew to the ground. There was a slightly pink twinge growing in his cheeks; he matched the living room quite well. For some reason it made John just the slightest touch uncomfortable, seeing him squirm like this, and he averted his gaze to the wall. It landed on the ugliest fucking painting he'd ever seen of a white pony bedazzled in pink ribbons and glitter. That really did it.

"Christ, Pete, what was your mother _on_ when she decorated this place?" he said in disgust.

Pete shrugged nonchalantly. "She's a funny lady."

"I'll say."

"Quite horrendous, Pete. I'm surprised your retinas aren't scorched."

"You shouldn't count on it."

"Oh- er, uh, so Paul?"

The boy's placating gaze shot back up again at John. Curse those fucking doe eyes. Made him want to punch things.

"Erm- yeah?"

"So we just want you to play some for us, y'know," he looked to the other two boys for backup, but Stuart had gone decidedly quiet, while Pete remained his usual stoic self. He groaned internally, knowing they were doing this on purpose as the whole Paul thing had been his idea in the first place. He hated this. It felt like an interrogation no one wanted to participate in with zero stakes. His mind whirred, and he asked, "So what do you listen to? Like- your influences, I suppose."

"Oh." He was quiet for quite some time, a bit frustratingly so. "Well, I like all sorts of things, I guess. I like all the 60s stuff that everyone likes I guess, um, the Beatles and the Stones and Jimi Hendrix...I like the Smiths too, R.E.M., the Pixies. Elvis and Billy Joel, sometimes."

"Do you like metal?" Stuart asked incisively.

"Oh, er...like Metallica? Yeah, I like some of their stuff I guess."

"You told John you wanted to be in our band. Have you heard us play before?"

"Aye, Ivan played me some of your tapes." The briefest grin broke on to his face, and for just a moment John was almost smitten. "I really liked it. A lot. Um, especially your stuff," and he pointed quickly at Stuart. "You're really, really good. Especially, um...'My Girl's A Monster'? That riff is, um, really cool."

If someone thought _the_ Stuart Sutcliffe was too much of a stony bastard not to be swooned over by the complete blind adoration of an idiot 14-year-old, well...they'd be completely wrong. His face was practically glowing with smug self-assuredness, and he leaned back just a bit and crossed his arms. "Well, that's very nice," he said, trying to tamp down on his obvious thrill that the kid was such a suck-up. John wanted to groan again. "So, John said you played the guitar, right?"

"Yeah, I, uh-" he tapped his guitar case with his foot to underscore the point. "I play the guitar."

"Well, I don't know if he told you this, but we are obviously not looking for another guitar player, of course." If Paul was crushed by this, he didn't show it. "However, what we do need is a bass player- and badly. So. Do you know any bass?"

Paul's mouth folded up into a tiny line, twisting slightly. After a moment's thought he nodded. "Yeah, I can play a bit of bass. I mean...I'm much better at guitar, though."

Stuart's eyes lidded. "We're not looking for a guitar player," he said flatly.

"Do you guys have a bass?" Paul asked, trying to regain some of that niceness. This was one of the first things he ever learned about Paul, and it would prove to be something very intrinsic to understanding the boy: while not an egomaniac, Paul very clearly was aware of what his strengths and weaknesses as a player (and person) were, and was not afraid to speak brashly when he knew he knew what he was doing. However, this also cooexisted with his very, very terrible need for constant validation from others that he was _nice_ , and that he was thought of kindly. Sometimes it was a visible mechanism, the cogs shifting to swallow down his own knowledge that he was right when he was afraid someone might not think he was being _Nice Paulie_. This was the very first time John saw it, and it changed his view of the boy, honestly. Guitar Virtuoso Paul was kicked in the nutsack by Nice Paulie in order to take a role in the band, and it was not something that sat lightly with John in years to come. For as soon as they heard Paul's playing, they knew not a single adult Lidpudlian could hold a candle to his playing.

They all learned this, of course, about three minutes later in Pete's living room once Paul's acoustic was firmly secured again in his grasp. To start, it was a beautiful guitar, with the most clean and sonorous twang that John had ever heard, and he handled it with the deft and ease of a seasoned professional. After some waffling and noodling and puttering while blushing hard enough to start a small fire, Paul had launched into an odd skiffle of arpeggiated chords and slides up and down the fretboard that left even Stuart a bit slackjawed. He played the little ditty while humming under his breath and tapping his foot just slightly, and John was nothing less than entranced. The timid weirdo he'd met in McDonald's was completely decimated the second Paul's fingers strummed downwards, and he stared at the boy in a completely new light. He felt his mouth get a bit dry, truth be told. It was absolutely captivating.

The moment didn't last. Stuart suddenly cried out "Alright, alright, stop it, stop," with a furious wave of his hand, and while his face was an angry tomato, he did not seem the slightest interested in explaining what exactly made him so angry. He didn't have to; they all knew. Paul was better than him; exactly as he'd so nonchalantly told him before. The little fucker had been right. He could hardly believe it. Stuart couldn't either, clearly.

"That was a bit unnecessary," he scowled. "We don't play fucking blues shite either."

Paul's eyes once again flew to the floor. "Oh, uh...I'm sorry. Kinda got carried away. I haven't really, uh...played for people before?"

"We play rock," Stuart continued with the same deep, hateful scowl. "Metal. Not blues shite. And you're not playing the guitar. _I_ play the guitar. Got it?"

"Yeah, course."

John and Pete glanced quickly at each other, communicating a bevy of thoughts in the span of an instant. Thoughts including: _Paul's a fucking genius, Stuart is insane, how the fuck are we going to deal with this holy shit this is awful_

"Pete, the bass is downstairs, right?" Stuart interrupted. "Rob's bass?"

"Yeah, it should still be down there."

Five more minutes and they had all traipsed down the stairs to Pete's basement which was, interestingly enough, neither pink or frilly. Coincidentally, Pete's basement also happened to be the Hellcats' very official rehearsal studio, featuring a threadbare couch dumped in the middle of the floor and a myriad of bar stools, endless amp cords, and amps. Beside a squat, cubic television was Rob's (R.I.P.) bass, leaning casually against the wall as though it had just been set down the night before and not abandoned months prior. John wandered around the basement somewhat aimlessly, watching Paul intently. He'd reluctantly left his guitar upstairs and now seemed a bit smaller and lost without it. He was chewing his bottom lip a lot and had the massive sleeves of his sweater wrapped around him. Pete and Stuart took their respective places behind the kit and at the guitar amp, both giving each other odd looks.

"The bass is over there," John muttered, pointing over to the TV. "And the amp's over there."

While Paul took his time procuring the bass and the necessary amp and cords etc. etc., the other three boys warmed up; Pete playing random shite on the cymbals, Stuart angrily and blanking slamming at his guitar (no doubt thinking of Paul's perfect guitarmanship), John mumbling random phrases into the microphone and tuning his guitar.

The Hellcats had a modest selection of tunes written by John, though admittedly they were mostly awful and all consisted of alternating power chords between the lead and rhythm guitars, loud and off-tempo jackhammering on the kit, and tuneless growling from John. It could not really be defined by any one genre, mostly because it was really fucking awful. Furthermore, they were quite the aesthetically confusing group: Pete sported a mohawk and ripped hair-metal shirts (despite his pink and frilly upbringing), Stuart looked like he was constantly trying to look like an extra from Quadrophenia, and John...er, well, he mostly just wore jeans. All of that aside, it wasn't really to say that the three of them weren't good musicians; on the contrary, their act of disarray and chaos was about 80% on purpose. This did not completey excuse the fact that they sounded like shite, however, because their setlist also included songs that were shitty _not_ on purpose. These were covers, from a wide selection of artists, though mainly Sonic Youth, Black Sabbath, The Smiths, that the Hellcats played with extreme enthusiasm and extreme awfulness. Things had definitely gone from bad to worse, though, since the untimely departure of Rob Loeb for America, and without the beating heart of a bass to unite the screeching guitars and schizophrenic drumkit it was a bit like being violently punched when listening to the Hellcats perform. Although even John could understand this was a large part of their appeal for many people.

"You said Ivan showed you one of our tapes, right?"

"Yeah, he said it was from one of your first big shows last November. Opening for, er, Slowfinger, something like that?"

Pete nodded solemnly while working a groove into one of the snares, and the two other boys nodded happily. "That was a good show," Stuart sighed. "That was when we still had fuckin' Rob," John pointed out.

"So...do you- are there parts for the bass?" Paul asked hesitantly. John and Stuart immediately looked at each other and burst into laughter.

" _Parts_?! Like fucking sheet music?"

Paul turned a flustered shade of bright pink, again, not unlike Pete's living room, and John grinned at him. "C'mon, we're just giving you shit, it's alright. But you've heard some of our setlist, yeah? You said you liked 'My Girl's A Monster'?"

"Yeah, yeah. But- I mean, I don't really...I don't really know if I can just come up with a bassline on the spot.'

"It ain't that hard, our songs have like three chords. Just jump around on the root note and go up a fifth or the octave every once in a while," John reassured him. Stuart quirked an eyebrow, no doubt in response to _'go up a fifth or the octave.'_ Stuart was a bit of a reverse snob in some situations, such as when he thought people were making fun of him for not knowing any music theory. He usually thought people were making fun of him for that when they talked about music theory at all, and by "people" he meant John.

"We can just launch into a song and see what he can come up with," Pete said, breaking his vow to say no more than six words at a time, apparently. Paul did not seem to be a fan of this idea, but Stuart most certainly was. And so Pete counted off the beginning to 'My Girl's A Monster,' and away they went.

'My Girl's A Monster' was one of John's personal favorites, and so he was quite pleased to know Paul liked it. Like all of their songs, it was rough and fast and choppy, consisting of a three-chord riff from A to D to E. He had stolen it from 'Spirit in the Sky' by Norman Greenbaum, a song he remembered Mimi playing on the kitchen radio when he was a little kid. It was also one of the only songs he'd ever actually bothered to sit down and write actual lyrics for, although he forgot them half the time when he was singing, anyway.

As per usual, Pete had started them off way too fast, and so John stumbled over his rhythm chords while Stuart practically faked his way through the entire opening riff, although they thankfully landed on the right foot together by the downbeat of the first verse. John's mic was up way too loud and he was too close, spitting and snarling ' _she got green eyes but they ain't looking at me, ohhhhh no',_ shit like that, relishing in the squawk of feedback and pure _noise_ that filled the basement. He closed his eyes and wagged his head, grinning, opening them once more when he remembered Paul was still there watching them.

His first thought looking at him was, _Christ, this kid is never gonna be a fucking rock star._ He was sitting on a barstool across the room with his feet crossed primly and the bass seemingly threatening to tip him over. John's stomach opened up like a pit as he tried to imagine the audience at fucking Orange 17 reacting when they saw this little dweeb puttering around in the corner of the stage with his head down while John sang about fucking the Bride of Frankenstein. It just didn't jive.

_'My girl's a monster...ooooooo, she's a monster (a monster?) a monster!'_

Suddenly a thunderous swoop entered the noise of the room; John's eyes shot back over to Paul, who had now straightened up in the barstool and was thumping his fingers up and down the bass, eyes closed and head bobbing to the beat of the bass drum. It threw him off so bad that he forgot about 2/3rds of the second verse, fibbing and mumbling his way through them while trying to unpack what Paul was doing, because he was definitely _not_ just playing the root and the fifth, that was for sure. His eyes focused in on the boys fingers, chubby and pale, sliding up and down the fretboard like this was an advanced jazz band and not a very shitty fake-metal song. Stuart's eyes were hyper-focused on him as well, practically burning with confused rage. Pete did not seem to notice any of this, rushing the tempo again. Paul was only happy to oblige as they steadily played faster and faster, tripping up the strings without breaking a sweat. John was, once again, completely captivated, and almost missed the final note. Stuart released a string of expletives, and kicked his amp.

"Fucking Christ, Pete. I'm going to have a bleeding heart attack."

"It needs to push, Stu, and you're fucking-"

"Paul!' John exclaimed excitedly, and walked over to clap the kid on the back like he'd just won a rugby match. "What the fuck was that, man! Holy shit!"

An abashed grin was tugging at Paul's face, as he shook his head and laughed uneasily and tried to brush away compliments and whatever else. "I just- y'know, I was just playing the root, the fifth, er, some other parts, I think..."

"You're a bass genius!"

"That was really good," Stuart murmured, although he wasn't so sure it was a compliment to Paul so much as it was a terrified concession. "That was- Christ. Just, fuck. Pete, man, you've gotta chill out, I'm serious."

"It needs to push."

"He's right," John agreed, walking the perimeter of the room to get a bottle of water out of the fridge. "It could easily still be 30% faster."

"Are you fuckin' mental? It's fast enough as it should be right now."

"I'm not so sure anymore, Stu, I liked that fast tempo quite a bit." Then he threw a glance at Paul, and smiled. "The bass sure fucking helps, though."

"Super good, man," Pete echoed.

"Thanks," Paul said, still beaming.

"You're _absolutely_ sure you're 14 still, right?"

Stuart looked flabbergasted. "He's 14?"

"He's good, right? Man. I've gotta hand it to Ivan for this one," John laughed, shaking his head. "Does anyone want a bottle of water?"

After a water break and some general bullshit shooting it was officially decided to induct Paul in as a member of the Hellcats. It was a unanimous decision, albeit a somewhat bitter one from one member of the group, but Paul was accepted nonetheless. Thus, Rob Loeb's bass was transferred into his custody, with Paul swearing to practice the bass 'a lot more,' as though the shit he'd played already wasn't the best they could have ever wanted. While Paul awkwardly reminded them he was returning to London at the end of September, the Orange 17 gig of September 2 was well before his departing date, and would give them plenty of time to rehearse before then.

They called it a day after that, and as John walked home, he was filled with a buoyancy supported by a certain bouncing bassline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 100% my 1990s-2000s John & Paul AU wish fulfillment! 
> 
> *GENERAL DISCLAIMERS*
> 
> 1\. First things first, there is a lot lifted from reality BUT there is also a lot that has been changed in order to make the narrative work better, so some characters (Stuart in particular) are not really as based in real-life as others.  
> 2\. Secondly, this story begins in the summer of 1991, and focuses a lot on their imagined band. To make this work, I had to fudge the releases of some albums from that year (for anyone who's really annoyed I mention an album that wasn't released until later in 1991 than when the story takes place).  
> 3\. ALSO, and very importantly, the Beatles exist in this reality but do not consist of the members we know, of course. Try not to question my poor world-building too much; we'll just call it timey-wimey stuff ;) (However, the respective solo albums of the actual Beatles do NOT exist).  
> 4\. It should also be noted that I am very, very American; I've done my best not to use American anachronisms, but the dialect is still going to be off, and for that I apologize. 
> 
> This story is going to consist roughly of two parts, the first part taking place in 1991 and the second in 2003, with a brief interlude taking place in 1994. The first part and the interlude are from John's perspective, and the second is from Paul's. 
> 
> Most of the story's finished, and I'll be uploading it in chapters in a mostly timely fashion!
> 
> I've spent (ahem) a considerable amount of time outlining this story, but there's still probably going to be some issues. If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, PLEASE leave comments. I thrive on them. Lol. Also, feel free to message me any time at my tungle.com, which is @/eeirp. Perhaps I will regret linking these two accounts, but only time will tell. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy!


	2. Everybody's Got Something To Hide

It had now been two weeks since that fateful day at McDonald's, and rehearsals for the Hellcats were in full swing. When John wasn't at the aforementioned Hellmouth Itself, of course. His aggressively boring six-hour shifts were now exclusively spent pondering new riffs, chord changes, song titles, covers, and everything else opening up like a flower now that they had Paul. Even Stuart could admit that the boy truly was their key to greatness; he seemingly unlocked every door musically, seeing the answer to every melodic conundrum, solving harmonies like they were mathematical equations. His basslines flowed and ebbed beneath the music, a steady thread that sewed the diametric pieces of the band into one. It was corny, but _Christ_ was John really gaining this newfound appreciation for the bass.

Conversely, his appreciation for the bassist was somewhat in limbo.

Paul was amazing at music- everyone would give him that. But there was still something perplexing and unknowable about the boy that put John on edge, especially the few times they were alone in each other's company. The kid didn't talk much, and there was very little any of them knew about him, including his last name, why he was staying in Liverpool instead of London, how he could play the guitar like Robert Johnson before he'd even hit puberty. And it wasn't that John didn't know what to say to the kid; he just never knew how he would react. There was a part of him that was terrified he'd say the wrong thing and send Paul running for the hills (er, or London, as it were). One such of these times was at the Hellmouth Itself.

It was a lazy Wednesday afternoon, about two past noon, and the store was completely dead. John had almost entered a catatonic state when, much to his surprise, none other than little ol' Paulie came in through the swinging doors. The first thing he noticed was the lack of guitar or bass strapped to the boy's back, which was a very strange sign indeed.

"Hullo, Paul," he said pleasantly. "What'll it be?"

"Er, medium #1, please. The combo, that is."

"Anything else?"

Paul's face was drawn up to the glow of the menu boards, his features washed out in fluorescent glow. He was tugging at his bottom lip again, a tic he had that happened near constantly, and John wished (not for the first time) he could have even the slightest idea what was going on in his head.

"Uh, a cookie too, I guess," he said.

"I'll throw it in for free," John said with a wink as he punched the order in. "Hellcats' discount."

"Oh," Paul started, getting incredibly flustered again. "You don't have to do that, really, I've got enough-"

"I _insist_. We're band mates now, lad. Free cookies are part of that deal."

'Well, thank you."

"That'll be £3.41."

He shoved a folded up five into John's open hand, eyes flitting around the room in a strange manner. John drew his eyebrows together.

"You alright, son?" he asked while depositing the change back into Paul's clammy fist, and Paul just shook his head.

"I'm alright, I'm alright, just having some uh...I mean it doesn't really-"

"No, what is it?"

Paul looked up at him, positively gnawing on his bottom lip, and glanced away again as though this conversation was physically paining him. John straightened up and tried to appear nice, because he did genuinely want to know more about this kid, even though he was a bit of a weirdo. There was clearly something deeply bothering him.

After a deep pause he spoke again, carefully. "Well, it's a bit of a girl problem, to be honest," he admitted, his face burning a deep scarlet. Without realizing it John felt his face break into an enormous grin, and he could not help but laugh heartily.

"That's it, son? Oh my lord."

Paul looked bothered, and dug his toe into the ground. "It's not that funny," he muttered.

"No, I just didn't- well, I didn't peg you for the type, to be honest- listen, say, you wanna talk about it? I'm about to be on break anyroad. I'll eat with ya."

"No, oh-"

It was too late. John was already untying his apron, flexing over his shoulder to yell into the back: "Francine, I'm clockin' out!" A distant 'who fuckin' cares' echoed back, and John laughed again. "Let me go get you some food, go take that booth in the very back."

John's favorite booth was in the very back of the lobby, situated under the big window and blocked off from sight of the counter. Paul was sitting miserably with his back to the window and his hands under his thighs as John bustled over with two big trays of fried greasy crap and a fuckload of cookies. He set one of the trays down in front of Paul and grinned, feeling all fatherly, and took the seat across from him. Paul kept his head down.

"So, girl issues?" John said amusedly while opening his ranch sauce. "I don't remember having girl issues as young as you, but maybe you're more advanced than we thought."

"Haha," Paul said flatly, but there was something in him starting to brighten up, like a light had been flicked on behind his eyes. It was the same way he got during Hellcats' rehearsals when everything was clicking (which it had been quite a bit, recently, since Paul's induction). "You know, you really didn't have to eat with me."

"Nonsense. Keeps me busy. Besides," he started a bit softer, wagging a chip at Paul. "You're a bit of a closed book. I mean, I'd like to know you better, man." That sounded a bit more awkward than he intended, and Paul's head lowered again. Yikes.

"Not a whole lot to know," he said, a twinge of sadness in his voice, although it might just have been a voice crack.

"Well, you've got girl issues, that can be a bit interesting. So. Tell us all."

Paul sighed. "It's just this girl I go to school with...back in London, y'know." This conversation was clearly enormously paining him, but to his credit, he soldiered on. "We go to school together and she's really nice and pretty and I just thought that maybe we'd be together but now she hasn't rung at all since I've gotten to Liverpool and I feel like an imbecile." He leaned his head on his right hand and stuck his bottom lip. He looked like a mortally despaired toddler, and John could not even attempt holding back a grin. "It's stupid. I know."

"What's her name?"

"Dorothy. But everyone calls her Dot."

"S'a bit of an old-fashioned name."

"And John isn't?" he said with a huff of laughter.

John mocked surprise and offense. "My oh my, what slander, lad! John is the most popular name of all time, I'll have you know. I come from a long proud line of Johns. We were destined to rule this world. Someday there will be an uprising of Johns, and you will be on the wrong side of history, my friend." He dunked a nugget in ketchup and chomped it in one bite. "Paulie, Paulie...what's your last name, Paulie?"

"Oh, Christ, please don't call me Paulie," he grimaced. "And it's McCartney. _Paul_ McCartney."

"Mr. McCartney...hmm. Not what I expected. Mrs. Dot McCartney? How's that sound?"

That got a giggle (an actual _giggle_ ) out of the kid, and it was the most fascinating thing John had ever witnessed. It had to have been the first time he ever heard Paul laugh, and it tugged at his heart in a strange way. Much like music, it completely changed his face. He looked older, and more alive. He smiled and tossed another nugget in his mouth.

"That sounds _awful_ ," Paul choked out. "Right now she won't even call me. I don't hear any wedding bells in the future."

"Well, have you called her?"

His eyes, already so fucking large, somehow managed to grow even bigger. "What? No, no I haven't called her."

"Jesus, there you go, ya idiot. She just doesn't want to make the first move." He shook his head. "Still, Christ, aren't you all a bit young for this?"

"Dot is 15," he said with a sigh. "She's already had three boyfriends."

"Sounds like a slag."

Paul shot him a look. "She's not a slag, she's the nicest girl I've ever met."

"Christ, Macca, you're not married _yet_. But still, I think you could be lucky number four, eh?"

"Macca?"

"Oh yes, I forgot," he said, rolling his eyes. "You're not a Northerner. It's just, uh...well, it's a nickname, I suppose. I'm Lenny, short for Lennon."

"I've never heard anyone call you that."

"It's mostly in theory, lad. 'Sides, you've only met a couple people who live here, right? Do you spend your nights at home pining away for ol' Dot?"

"Shut up," he mumbled, but still not as pissed off as he may have chosen to be. "I just- y'know, it's bollocks when girls lead you on like that-"

"Ay, watch out, kid. That's a bit sexist."

"Not like _that_ , I just mean she was talking to me so much the last few months of school and she really made it seem like she cared about me and that she genuinely wanted to be with me, and now...she hasn't called, I just don't know what to think."

"Don't sweat it, Macca. It's just been a few weeks. If you really care about her, _you_ should call _her_. It lets her know that you care about her. That you're there for her, that you want to listen, that you want to be with her. That's all it takes for birds, I swear."

"How many girlfriends have you had?" Paul asked, something dumb in his voice setting John off. He frowned.

"Christ, I don't fuckin' know."

"You're 17, right?"

"Almost 18," he said, smacking his lips while finishing up his chips, even though it was a lie. He wouldn't be 18 for another 10 months. But shock and awe was often the best plan of attack with stupid kids. "I've had a coupla ladies, none too serious. I'm a bit of a freewheeling man."

Paul was staring at him again with that stupid childish adoration, and it was really setting John off. Seems the plan had was nothing awe-inspiring or rad or cool about him, and the fact that this kid thought that was just a touch annoying. He decided to change the subject.

"So, Macca. Now on to more serious matters."

"What, like the band?"

"Precisely. How do you feel about our current setlist for the 29th?"

"'My Girl's A Monster,' 'Push Me Over,' 'Jacob's Ladder'... then we're covering 'Silver Rocket' and 'Bigmouth Strikes Again,' right?"

"Yeah. Just a little set for this one. The Orange 17 gig is gonna be a lot longer."

Paul blew out his cheeks. "Y'know, I have to tell you, I'm a bit nervous. I've never done anything like this before."

"It's not so bad. Just think, at least you're not up there singing."

"I suppose not," he said, but still sounded a bit absent. "Did you get nervous when you first started performing?"

"No," John said, which was the truth. He'd never had much trouble with audiences or crowds. He didn't take other people seriously enough to care that much. "It's really not that bad, son. And the gig on 29th is going to have like, seven people. It'll give you a good idea of what it's like. And 'sides, if we fuck up, we just keep playing. The music we play ain't that serious." He snorted. "In the catastrophic alternate reality where you would ever fuck up."

"Oh, I- I mess up a lot, just not very loudly."

"No such mistake that I've ever heard from you."

"Thanks."

"No thanks needed, kid, the thanks is all to you. You've sorta saved us."

It was Paul's turn to snort. "I sincerely doubt that."

"No, I really mean it. We weren't doing too well since Rob left, and well, you're actually better than he ever was, so it's a win all around...we're very lucky to have you, is all I mean."

"Oh," was all Paul managed, blushing hard again. "Thank you, John."

Hearing his name in Paul's mouth like that made him feel a bit odd again, and so he bristled over and said, "Alright, well, I've gotta get back to work. See you tomorrow."

And that was that.

...

Rehearsal the next day was to be in Pete's basement again. John woke up way too late, feeling much more hungover and tired than a 17-year-old had the right to be, and struggled into old jeans and a flannel with little gusto. He put his glasses on blearily, too tired to bother with his contacts. His voice felt raw. This was not going to be a good rehearsal.

"Jesus, John," Stuart huffed a little over an hour later. Not a single person had sat down yet (the exception being Pete, of course), and Stuart was clearly in a mood to end all moods. He suspected it had something to do with his foreign-exchange girlfriend, Astrid. She was a bit of a perplexing character. "It sounds like you aren't even fucking trying."

"Sorry, man," John said hoarsely, trying to keep a level head. Someone had to. "Let's just try it again."

They were rehearsing their cover of Sonic Youth's 'Silver Rocket,' which really only worked when John's voice wasn't shite, which it just so happened to be this morning. Pete counted them off into the frenetic opening chords that Stuart played with a touch more anger and sloppiness than usual, which was really saying something for him, haphazardly landing into the downbeat of Pete's machine-gun drumming. It was easily their hardest song. The only person in the room not breaking a sweat was Paul of course, standing in the corner with the bass hoisted high up on his little frame, matching time with Pete effortlessly. John watched him hyenically until it now his time to try his caterwauling impression of Thurston Moore once again. John was inexplicably drawn to songs like these because they mostly just required shouting absolute nonsense into the microphone, but today his throat was so sore that the words got stopped up in his throat and he could barely make it the chorus before falling off the microphone. Stuart dropped his guitar with a flurry of curses, walking to the other end of the room.

"I'm going for a ciggie break," John announced weakly.

"Yes, please go smoke a fucking cigarette. I'm sure it'll only help your throat. Jesus fucking Christ."

John, still trying out this whole pacifist schtick, kept the anger building in his body contained to a tiny burning hole in his chest that ached for release. Without so much as another word he turned and walked out Pete's basement door, fumbling for the box of Marlboro's in his jeans pocket as he did so. His eyes were burning; his throat felt like it was on fire. His fingers were sloppy trying to get a ciggie out and he could barely flick the lighter on. He wanted to scream, but he wasn't so sure his vocal chords wouldn't explode if he tried. As he desperately tried again and again to light it he was dimly aware of a person standing beside him; they did not even come up to his shoulder, so of course it could be no other than Paul.

"Fuck off, kid," he said shakily, cursing the spinner wheel of the lighter that would not comply. Paul didn't say anything else, but extended a chubby hand. John's attention broke off and he looked down at him. His eyes were wide and kind. Without saying anything, John placed the lighter in the kid's hands and lowered his cigarette so Paul could light it. With one end burning and the other firmly secured in his mouth, John took a relieved, tired breath in and felt something inside him still. After a moment passed he said, quietly, "Thank you."

"Stuart's being rude," Paul said oddly. "He's not being very nice at all."

"Apt observation, Macca. It's sorta a common thing for him."

"He just- he doesn't have a lot of patience. I guess. I don't know him as well as you do."

"He's not always this bad," John remarked. "Something crawled up his arse a few weeks ago to nest and die, I suppose."

Paul laughed, and it brought the slightest smile to John's lips. The ciggie was relaxing his nerves. "Do you smoke, Macca?"

"Oh, me? No, no I don't. Oh jeez."

"Well, you're young yet. Wanna try one?"

"My dad'll have me hide," he said weakly. "Those things are- y'know, they're really bad for you, John. Doctors are saying they're a cause of cancer now."

"That's a bunch of shite," John said, squinting up at the aggressively cheery midday sun. "Everyone I know smokes. None of them are dead. Far as I know. Just a buncha government shite used to control the people." He looked back down at Paul, who was standing looking a bit stony-faced. "But I understand if you don't want to try, you know. It's a bit of an acquired taste."

"When did you start smoking?"

He shrugged. "Iono. Probably your age, maybe a bit younger."

"Jeez."

"So, if I'm dead of cancer in a few years, I guess you can say you were right," he said, and punctuated it with a hollow laugh. Paul did not respond. He took another drawl of the ciggie, and sighed, dropping it in the grass and rubbing it into the dirt. "You're doing really great, kid. I hope you know that. We're- well, _I'm_ impressed of you, beyond belief. It's not gonna be easy when you go back to London. Er, for the band."

Paul's little face looked over at him and beamed. There was no comparable feeling in the world to this. "Thanks, John. For everything. You guys have been really nice to me."

"Well, you're a good fuckin' player. Thank yourself, I guess."

"'t'd be a bit weird for that, I think."

"Nah, it's easy. Listen to this," he paused, and assumed the stance of an actor with his arms clasped at his chest. "'Johnny, I must say, you are just the most wonderful fellow I have ever met! Please, please me!'" he cried out in a feminine tone. Paul burst out in laughter, completely doubling over and cackling. This, in turn, caused John to descend into his own fit of giggles, trying to maintain a bit of composure to finish the bit. "'Oh, you are just the _best_ singer I have ever heard! You do _not_ sound like a cat being tortured with a hot poker even a _little_ bit!'"

"Stop, oh my god, pleeeeaaaase," Paul half-laughed half-cried, almost falling into the grass. His hand was wrapped tightly around John's arm, and a warmth spread across his whole body, an infectious grin overtaking his face.

"'Have my babies, Johnny!'"

"I'm gonna start crying, oh my god, I can't- I can't go back to rehearsal crying."

"No, shhh, it's alright," John said, his voice almost collapsing into more peals of laughter at the sight of Paul. His laughter was absolutely infectious. When he laughed- _really_ laughed- he laughed with his entire body, as though the humor carried into his core. But best not to ponder too long on this. "Alright, let's get back...I think this has significantly improved my sprits. Now all there is to do is try again."

The rest of rehearsal slogged on with less resistance, with Stuart's mood performing an 180 degree flip after a brief phone call with someone (presumably Astrid), and eventually John could kick and scream his way through 'Silver Rocket' without an exploded throat, so he supposed it could be considered progress. They called it a day around 4:30 or so, and as he was packing up his guitar Paul ambled up with an idiot grin on his face. John reflexively rolled his eyes.

"What is it?"

"Well, er, this is gonna sound a bit weird."

John stood up fully and turned around to stare down at Paul. "Uh...what is it?"

"Are you free tonight?"

He reviewed his mental schedule for a brief moment, and, upon finding it devoid of any dates with Ms. Andie that evening, replied with an inquisitive affirmative. Paul looked scarily excited. "You're scaring me a bit, Macca."

"Well, my aunt's making a roast tonight. It's about the only thing she makes that's even slightly edible. I was wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner? You've been invited, 's the only reason I ask." He paused for a second, nibbling his lip again. "You don't have to say yes, obviously, I know it's a bit weird. They just want to meet you, 's all. And we could work a bit more on some of the songs, too. I know you said I needed to come up with something better for 'Push Me Over.'"

"Aye," John murmured, pondering with a bit of fear what dinner with McCartney & Co. would entail. Dinner with Paul didn't sound half bad, to be honest, but God only knew what his folks could have been like. Still, it wasn't like he had anything better to do that night, so he shrugged. "Yeah, what the hell. Dinner at yours. I'll drive."

After parting ways with Pete and a more pleasant Stuart, they walked a few feet apart across the street to John's car. Paul was clearly somewhat nervous to be driving with an older boy, and this again gave John a bit of perverse pleasure. "Just kick all that shit aside, sorry about the mess," he said, gesturing to the superabundant array of McDonald's litter crammed into the bottom of the passenger's seat. "Casualty of the trade, m'fraid."

"My aunt and uncle's house isn't too far from here," Paul said, feet gingerly pulled up as to avoid sinking into the fast food sinkhole. John made a mental note to clean his car the next morning. "I usually just walk to Pete's house."

"Do you ever plan on getting your license? What with living in London and whatnot."

"Oh, yeah, of course. I think I'd go mad if I didn't get that kind of independence. I don't really wanna stay in London when I grow up, anyway."

"Really?" John said, then immediately after, "Where do I turn again?"

"This next left. And yeah, I- I mean, I love London, I'm glad I've grown up there and all but it's a bit... _much_ , sometimes."

"City life is a drag," John agreed. "We're all baking in so much concrete."

"Yeah, exactly. It's been my dream since I was a kid to have a farm up in Scotland or something." He laughed at himself before John had the chance. "I know it sounds dumb, I just- oh! Turn here, yeah."

John turned down a smaller side street and slowed the car, wheeling past rows of neat houses with big backyards. Paul's aunt and uncle were comfortable in the way of money, apparently. "Y'know, we're not too far from my house here, either. You could probably walk there if you wanted. For whatever reason."

"Do you still live with your parents?"

Something ugly reared its head inside John's chest, and he swallowed to keep from saying the wrong thing. "Er, well, I still live with my aunt Mimi, I s'pose that's what you mean.'

"Oh," Paul said, and went terrifyingly quiet.

"Nah, it's not...well, it's a tale for another time, I suppose." He looked over at the boy, looking a bit pale in his bright red sweatshirt, and tried something akin to a reassuring smile. "It's alright, son."

He huffed and nodded his head. "Okay, okay. Um...my aunt and uncle are pretty normal, anyway, by the way." He grimaced. "I mean, just go easy on the cursing I guess."

John rolled his eyes so hard he was afraid they might injure some nerves. "I'll fucking mind my bloody mouth, then," he teased.

Despite all the jokes, he could tell Paul was genuinely nervous about John meeting his folks. It was a bit funny, him acting like a bird bringing home a guy for the first time. Well, he could play the perfect boyfriend, no issues. No cursing. Certainly no politics, and probably limited music talk if they were as blue-collar as John imagined them to be.

"So, John, have you heard the new R.E.M.?"

This was the conversation John was embroiled in at the McCartney dinner table; coincidentally, it was just about the last conversation he'd ever expected to be having, but here he was. Sitting in a very nice house with rather modest decorum and two very young audiophiles who were related to the best guitar player in all of England. If John from a month ago could have looked into the future at this moment, it was needless to say he'd be a bit out of his wits. Hell, if John from an _hour_ ago had looked into the future he'd be about as equally as perplexed.

Paul's aunt and uncle, Ellen and Kurt, were considerably younger than he'd expected; they were in their very early 30s, and while they appeared to be somewhat well-to-do individuals (at least judging from their house), with sensible haircuts and plain clothing, they were massive fans of all things music related and they were very, very cool. John was a bit flabbergasted by the whole situation, to be honest. Between bites of an edible pot roast he was quizzed on his tastes and opinions and influences with the Hellcats. This included his opinion on the new R.E.M., seemingly.

"Aye, I was a big fan of it. They're doing good over in the States. I usually tend to think that stuff kind of sucks, but I've always loved R.E.M. I think it's my country roots calling to me."

"Are you a fan of the mandolin?" Ellen asked, doling out some steaming carrots on to Paul's plate. "I loved the mandolin on that record."

"Quite a bit. I've always wanted to learn. My mother's teaching me a bit of banjo at the moment, actually."

"I'm sure it's a transferable skill," Kurt nodded. "Although I made the mistake of thinking my trumpet skills were transferable to the French horn a few months ago, I'm afraid." Ellen laughed at the memory, touching her husband's shoulder affectionately. John was a little taken aback. It had been awhile since he'd seen a married couple that seemed genuinely _happy_ to be in each other's company.

"So, how's our Paulie doing in your band, John?"

Paul (or _Paulie_ , God, no wonder he hated it when John said it, he'd have to make a note of that for later) turned his trademark shade of tomato and lowered his head, mumbling, "Jeez, Ellen, 's a bit awkward."

"Paul is a superb bass player," John said with as much sincerity as he could muster. "But all to his credit, I don't think it even holds a candle to his guitar playing. I'm serious. He is-" and he raised his fork filled with pork roast for emphasis, jabbing it at Paul "-the best guitar player I've ever heard in real life."

"He's exaggerating to make me sound good," Paul said hoarsely, absolutely mortified.

"I'm not," John said, grinning.

"Wow, kid!" Ellen smiled, jostling her nephew with her elbow. "We've been telling him this for years now, he's so good, he just gets embarrassed playing in front of people."

"I'm not embarrassed," Paul muttered, although once again the shade of his face was most definitely betraying him.

"Has he told you about our gig in the park on the 29th?"

"Which park?" Kurt asked.

"Oh, yikes, I forget the name off the top of my head. It's just a little local thing. Us Liverpool bands each playing a few songs. It'll be a nice afternoon. We're doing some covers, too- Sonic Youth and the Smiths. Paul is _outstanding_ on those tracks, although I'd argue he's even better on the Hellcats' original songs, of which he has written original basslines for."

Paul's head was hung so low it was just about parallel to the ground, with his aunt still rubbing his shoulder and him making some embarrassed noises. It was absolutely delightful, torturing the kid like this, John thought to himself.

"You've got good taste, son," Kurt said approvingly. "We'll be sure to be free on the 29th."

After dinner was over and plates were cleared and they were dismissed from the table there was still a bit of sun left outside, and so Paul suggested they take their guitars out into the backyard. He was about 90% sure this was to get away from his aunt and uncle mortifying him even more, although it was also just a pleasant evening outside. They lugged their cases out into the grass, and Paul retrieved two lawn chairs facing each other for them. The backyard was small, and homey, with a row of flowerbeds along the back fence and some iron-wrought sculptures poking about in the dirt. Paul pulled out his beautiful acoustic for the first time since his first day at Pete's, and played a few tuning notes as lightning bugs buzzed around his head. John pulled out his own (significantly less nice) guitar and listened intently to Paul's pitch to make sure they were in the same ballpark. Without a word they both started playing the intro chords to 'Bigmouth Strikes Again,' and Paul looked up at him with a joyful smile with his head wagging from side to side. They played it slowly, much slower than the original recording, but John liked the certain softness it gave to the song.

" _Sweetness, sweetness, I was only joking when I said I'd like to smash every tooth in your head,_ " John crooned, lending more of a country twang to the melody than Morrissey's take. While not the biggest fan of his own voice, he liked the way it sounded right now, humming in the air amongst lightning bugs as the air cooled and the sun faded away. The summer air always had a magical quality to it, and the words he sang seemed more eerie and powerful than ever before. " _And now I know how Joan of Arc felt_ ," he sang, and Paul responded immediately with the echo, " _now I know how Joan of Arc felt..."_ and then John stopped playing.

"You _sing_?" he said, flabbergasted. "You fucking _sing_ , and you hadn't thought to tell me this yet?"

It was hard to see in the draining light, but John was 100% certain that if he were able to see Paul's face properly, it'd be the deepest shade of red ever recorded in the history of all time.

"I don't-"

"Don't even try and deny it, Macca, because you clearly just sang."

"Okay," he said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I suppose I sing a bit."

"Will you- Christ, I know you're shy or fucking whatever but will you sing this? For me?" Paul didn't say anything. "Just for me. I won't make you sing in front of Pete or Stu, it's just...just for me."

Something unknowing and untraceable passed over Paul's expression. In the steadying darkness, he looked much older, and after a few seconds of silence, he shrugged defeatedly and said, "Yes, but only this once and you're _not_ talking to the other two about it, alright?"

"Scout's honor, Macca."

"Alright," he said, still sounding very uncomfortable. "Should I just sing 'Bigmouth' again?"

"Why not? Right, from the top."

They jangled into 'Bigmouth Strikes Again' again, watching each other's hands move across the frets, still playing the slower tempo. The full band arrangement of this song was positively violent thanks to Stuart's chainsaw approach to guitar, but Paul, in his more reserved and gentle style, encouraged John to lay back. And then Paul began to sing, and John realized his world would never be the same again. He sat, two feet across from John's face, singing back the very same words he himself had sung just moments prior, but sang them with purpose. Despite the high voice that had yet to crack from puberty, Paul had a lovely singing voice, simple and yet complex, yearning and yet straightforward like a church choir boy, pleasant and positively _beautiful_. Without having a proper reason for it John could not take his eyes off of Paul's mouth, watching the way it shaped around the words of the song, curling up at the edge like Elvis sometimes. He supposed the kid _did_ actually look quite a bit like Elvis, though maybe John just thought that now because he had better eyesight with his glasses on.

" _And I've got no right to take my place with the human race,"_ Paul sang, and the song was over. John felt like his face was going to split in half from smiling so goddamn much.

"You continue to surprise and amaze me, son," he laughed. "That was really good!"

"Ugh...well, I'm not a lead singer type, anyway-"

"Aw, never say never, you've got time to grow into it. You're young yet." There was a beat of silence, then John shook his head. "Alright, kid, I've gotta head home. I've got work in the morning."

"Alright, I'll show you out."

As they walked back in through the sliding doors to Paul's family's warm kitchen, he realized they'd never done what Paul had suggested, which was to work on the bassline for 'Push Me Over,' before quickly recognizing there was no other way he would have wanted to spend the evening than how they had. He felt a light inside his chest, the buoyancy Paul instilled in him. He said his goodbyes to McCartney & Co. on his way out the door, and was halfway across the street to where his car was parked when Paul's aunt ran out after him.

"You forgot your guitar," she laughed, handing him the case.

He mocked slapping himself over the forehead and gratefully took it, slinging it over his shoulder. "Bit absent-brained, as you can tell." He paused. "Thank you again for dinner, it was really good."

"Oh, my cooking's bloody awful, you don't have to flatter me like that. But thank you, John."

He stared perplexedly at her. "For what?"

"Well, you know, ever since Paul's mother died in March he's had a hard time being social...I'm just really glad he's met someone like you. He hadn't been playing music for the longest time but it was always so important to my sister that he play...so just, thank you for bringing that out in him again."

John felt like he'd been sacked in the gut. He took a step backward, mumbling, "Right, well, gotta get home, thanks again..." When Ellen smiled again at him and started walking back, he practically bolted back to his car. _Paul's mother was dead?_ He brought the boy into his mind, all chubby cheeks and sad smiles and uncombed hair, but all he could see was Julia. Julia, the first time he'd seen her since he was five years old, seashell eyes and a windy smile. Julia, handing him the keys to this car on his 17th birthday. Her laugh. Her kindness. Her absence. _Paul's mother was dead,_ but his was still here, and he'd never been more angry or full of love than in that moment.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he turned the ignition and started the drive home. It felt like the longest drive of his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This aunt and uncle of Paul's are completely mostly made up, but hey. They're the cool aunt and uncle everyone can only wish they have.  
> Also, the introduction of the titular backyard! :D
> 
> I'm also beginning to have the horrible desire to write chapter summaries in the style of a sitcom....


	3. Things We Said Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sliiiiight bit of angst in this one. just a bit.

Another week passed and John was invited over for dinner again at the McCartney's. He hadn't told Paul he knew about his mom, and intended to keep it that way. From the little he knew of the boy, he was certain that if he told him, Paul would quit the band. It was in everyone's best interest that Paul stayed in the Hellcats no matter what, even though John felt like he was slowly killing himself everytime he looked at Paul and thought of the boy's dead mum. Rehearsals had been going well, though, and they were almost ready for their gig that weekend, which they discussed on the drive from Pete's to Paul's.

"You're doing the Lord's work on 'Jacob's Ladder,' son. You didn't get to hear how shitty that song was when we first started working on it. Pure horse shite."

"Another prime case of Stuart playing too slow for Pete?" Paul asked with a laugh.

"Precisely. That's what's so important about the bass that no one seems to get," he said, slapping the steering wheel for emphasis. "It holds everything together. 'S what I fucking told Stu when I first tried to get you into the band. And what he wouldn't listen to, of course."

"W-what do you mean?"

John looked over at the boy, who looked genuinely lost. "Well, y'know. I sorta had to fight to convince Stu to let you into the band. He's just a bit of a, uh...sentimental fool. I don't think he really wanted to replace Rob because then it would feel like he was really gone. Which he _is_ , so I don't know why Stu's gotta live in denial about it. You're better than he ever was, anyroad."

"Er...maybe," Paul said. He had recently gotten somewhat better at admitting to his strengths. Somewhat. "He had the 'look,' though."

John couldn't help but snicker. "The 'look'?"

Paul was blushing furiously again, picking at the hem of his enormous sweatshirt. "Y'know. He _looked_ like a Hellcat. You all do. I mean, Stu is the coolest dressed person I've ever seen, and Pete has that mohawk, and you always look..."

"Look what?"

"Well, y'know, you look perfect without even trying," he mumbled, and his face looked like he'd spent an entire week in the Caribbean without sunscreen. John cracked a grin.

" _Dooooo_ I, now."

"Yeah, yeah, shut up." He looked briefly out the window, then turned back, speaking quickly. "My point being is, well, I'm a lot younger than the rest of you and I don't dress, er, I don't dress cool or anything so I'm just a bit nervous about the gig on Saturday is all."

John was really trying his best not to burst into laughter, but it was hard sometimes with this kid and the sometimes ridiculous stuff he said. "Oh, Macca, Macca...you are so young sometimes."

"I _know_!" he said, flustered. "That's why I'm _scared_!"

"No one's going to be giving half a shit about how you're dressed, son, when you play like a mercurial maniac the way you do. But, if it makes you feel better, you can borrow one of my shirts for Saturday. However, you will not be allowed to try and copy Pete's mohawk. That is a masterpiece years in the making and I am sincerely afraid of how it might look on you."

"Thanks," he said, sighing a bit.

"You've gotta stop worrying so much about what people might think of you," he tutted, pulling on to the side of the street across from Paul's house. "That's the first step to 'looking perfect without even trying,' as you so wondrously described it."

" _John_ -"

"I'm just fucking with ya, son." He turned the car off, and raised his hands in fake-mercy. "Alright. Let's go eat."

Dinner with Paul's aunt and uncle was lovely again, although this had to do entirely with conversational reasons and not even slightly with the truly awful shepherd's pie his aunt made, which tasted like dog food out of the tin. They talked about their upcoming gig (which was in Sefton Park, now remembered by John) and the lasting cultural influence of the Smiths, even though they all agreed that Morrissey sucked. Kurt talked about an awful hair metal band he had been the guitarist for in the early 80s, and Ellen talked about how she had followed Fleetwood Mac around on tour when she was a teenager. Paul mostly sat and listened, with a vague smile on his face, pushing food disinterestedly around on his plate. John had to assume he was related to them through Ellen, considering Kurt was a massive man of German descent with mutton chops. Ellen and Paul were both thin, with the dark, almost completely black hair and the same thin eyebrows that curved in a perpetually surprised expression. John realized that must have meant that Paul's mother looked an awful lot like Ellen, and he felt his throat stop up.

Like last time, after dinner they went out into Paul's backyard. It was clear the boy was partial to the outside, something not generally expected based solely on observations of his aggressively pale complexion. They set up lawn chairs facing each other again, and this time Paul lugged out both his acoustic and Rob's bass. After some quick tuning, they decided to run the entire show for Saturday, just the two of them. The set began with 'My Girl's A Monster,' and as he listened to Paul's effortless grace on the bassline, smiled smally to himself remembering the first time the boy played it. After that was 'Silver Rocket,' sounding extremely strange stripped down just to John's voice and acoustic chunking and Paul's driving bass, and both had to keep from giggling when John over-exaggeratedly snarled the chorus. Then there was 'Push Me Over,' a softer number that worked perfectly with just the two of them, aided by a beautiful, melodic bassline that Paul had spent a few days working on.

" _Push me over, let me fall, let me go where I need to go_ ," he crooned, eyes flitting periodically up to meet Paul's, who was watching him in a strange, placating manner. John swallowed and tried not to think too hard about it.

"I like this arrangement of the song much better than with the full band," Paul said softly after the last strum faded away. He looked up to John as though for approval, and John shrugged in concession.

"Yeah...truth be told, despite my hard exterior, I am a bit of a sucker for soft songs like that. I was raised on that jangly '60s stuff, y'know. I love the Beatles, even if it is a bit uncool to like them now." He ran his hand along his jaw, vaguely making a mental note to shave later. "I mean, I love this Sonic Youth stuff and that's mostly what the Hellcats do but...yeah. I think deep down I'll always love songs like this the best. They're what make me happy. Eeugh. Even though that sounds super queer."

Paul seemed to ponder this for a moment, then asked, quieter, "John, why do you live with your aunt?"

That completely threw him off guard, and even though it was a bit unfair, in a burst of anger he spat back, "How come you didn't tell us your mum's dead?"

The light seemed to drain out of Paul's face instantly. His mouth fell open, as though he was going to say something, but then snapped back shut. He looked into the distance for a moment or two, then turned back to John, and fixed him with the most quietly furious glare he'd ever seen. " _Fuck you,_ " he said, his voice dark and shaking. It was the first time he'd ever heard Paul curse, and he felt his limbs go numb. He wanted to scream something back but he couldn't move; he realized suddenly that he had _really_ said the wrong thing.

"I-"

"Fuck you, John. _Jesus_ , I-" he cut himself off suddenly, burying his face in his hands. He snapped back up in a second and his eyes were rimmed with red, but no tears fell. His little mouth was twisted up into a horrible line, and he looked more angry than John had ever seen. He wasn't saying anything; at least he hadn't screamed and told John to get out, although he was sure he wanted to. They sat in a horrible silence for one, two minutes before John spoke carefully.

"My parents got divorced when I was little," he began, watching Paul intently. "My dad split town, and my mum started dating this guy...my aunt Mimi called the fucking social services on them and got custody of me..." He swiped at his face with his sleeve. "I didn't even know about Julia until just last year."

"Julia's your mum?" Paul asked, quieter.

"Yeah," he said, and feeling suddenly very miserable, could no longer say anything. They sat in silence again for a few minutes, listening to the birds chirp and car noises and the faint shouts of neighbors having a party a few houses down. John raised his face up to the sky, and said, softly, "I'm sorry. That was a horrible thing to say."

"It's fine," the boy said, although he didn't sound very sure of it. "I shouldn't have asked about your mum either."

"You don't have to apologize for that," he said gruffly. "It's old news. I'm over it. And I- Julia lives here, now, she lives in Liverpool, so I see her sometimes, it's just...weird."

"You should see her more. You should visit her every day, if you can."

Paul's face was no longer so red, and John was struck once again how the age of his face could seem to fluctuate so often. Right now he looked ancient, impossibly older than John, with his expression stilled and almost serene. There was so much pain inside of him, John realized, and he felt a twinge of something in his heart for the boy. At the end of the day, he was really just a giant softie.

"If I could still see my mum, I would never pass up the chance," he said, then sighed. "But I know...I know it must be hard. But nothing's ever _that_ hard, y'know...John?"

"Yeah?"

"I didn't- I didn't tell you about my mum because I didn't want you to treat me like there was something wrong with me. That's why I'm staying in Liverpool right now, anyway. It was too hard being back home, with all my family constantly worrying if I'm okay...I'm never okay.," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone that chilled John. "But I still want to do stuff. I still want to live." He took a deep sigh. "I know it's what she wanted for me." 

Without thinking much about it, John reached out and grasped Paul's little hand in his, and the boy looked up with surprise.

" _Paul_ ," he began, forgoing the stupid nicknames for once, and the kid's eyes widened even further. But then he didn't really know where to go from there.

So they just sat there like that, as the sun set, John gripping on to Paul's hand, sharing this vast and unnamable grief that consumed both of them, feeling it abate just for a moment as they were alone together.

...

At Paul's suggestion the next day, John took Stuart to lunch with him at Julia's house. Truth be told, he probably might have preferred to take Paul, but Stuart was still his best mate and he'd been neglecting him somewhat lately with all the new band stuff going on. He picked him up around 11 and Stuart immediately popped Primal Scream's 'Screamadelica' into the CD player. John thought it fucking sucked, and told Stuart as much, prompting to yowl something about John's questionable music tastes, something along the lines of liking Elvis, who was (quoting Stuart) "ugly, fat, and dead." John rightly pointed out that those were no reasons not to like someone, and that Elvis had been quite the looker in his days, which in turn caused Stuart to call John a faggot, which (admittedly) stung just a little. And so he began to regale Stuart with tales of the beautiful Andie Elliot he'd been seducing the past few weeks.

"Well, it's good to know you're focused on someone other than freaky Paulie," Stuart huffed, and John glared at him.

"What the fuck does that mean."

"You know what it fucking means! You've been spending all your time with that little twat, we're all starting to think you've gone a bit soft between the ears," he said with a cruel cackle. "I can't blame you. He's such a _hunk_."

"You're such a fucking cunt," John snarled. "What? Jealous he's better than you at the guitar?"

"He's not fucking better than me, you arse, and you fucking know it," Stuart shot back, practically sniveling. "Just because he's fooled you with those cow eyes doesn't mean he doesn't have the rest of us. You're an _idiot_ , Lennon."

Struggling to maintain his composure, John took a deep breath. "Bit of a sore subject, eh?"

"I'm just saying this, so you know. At our concert tomorrow he is going to have a freakout and I will be the only one left to say 'I told you so.'"

"Whatever you say, Stu..."

They pulled up beside Julia's house, and John groaned. He hated every aspect of this quite a lot. Stuart's words swirled in his mind, and his stomach churned. He hadn't spoken to Julia in over a week. Was he really that stupefied by Paul? Did Stuart think Paul was going to replace him in the band? Christ, he hadn't spoken to Julia in over a week. He felt a bit bad that it'd gotten to the point that his best mate might think he'd be ousted by some kid they all barely knew, but on the other hand, Paul had proven himself time and time again to be a hell of a lot something more than 'some freak,' as Stuart put it, and while he knew it hurt to accept, Paul _was_ better than Stuart at guitar, but he would never ever kick Stuart out of the band because of that. Paul wasn't even staying in Liverpool! He was leaving in just a few short weeks, and then Stuart would never have to think about him again. _Paul's leaving in just a few weeks_ , John realized dumbly, and it only lended to his shitty mood. Oh, God. There was Julia, standing in the doorway, and this was all really happening.

"Hi, love," Julia greeted him, pulling him into a hug. It felt weird.

"Hi, mum," he said blearily, and gave her a tight smile before breaking away. "This is my friend, Stuart. 'S'alright if he joins us?"

"Of course!" she beamed, and led them all into the sun-filled kitchen. She was wearing a housedress and an apron, looking like the perfect mother out of a magazine, and bustled them all in to sit at the table. She was cooking something that smelled very good, and John felt a twinge in his stomach. Stuart shrugged his leather coat off, and John stole a glance at him, understanding somewhat why Paul had been so intimidated. If John hadn't known him, he would have been intimidated. Stuart was fucking beautiful, in a way that seemed to transcend gender. He always wore a leather coat, rain or shine, shiny, pointed boots and an impeccably swooped hairstyle. His skill on the guitar seemed to be incidental to his attractiveness, but for some reason goofy-looking Paul seemed more commanding of audience attention in his playing, no matter how much hair gel or eyeliner Stuart could polish himself with. He shook his head again. Best to stop thinking so much about Paul.

"How do you boys feel about grilled cheese and tomato soup?"

"Lovely, thanks."

"Sounds good."

She brought back two blue china soup bowls and two paper plates with greasy grilled cheeses. Stuart approached his with a measured grace; John attacked his with a ferocity like he hadn't eaten in a week. Julia sat across from John and observed him with a mysterious smile. He looked at her oddly a few times, then gulped and said, "Stu here is me band mate."

"Oh, of course! The Hellcats, right?"

Stuart nodded proudly. "I'm the guitarist. We actually-" John kicked him under the table and shot him an angry glare, but Stuart carried on unperturbed. "-we actually have a gig tomorrow at Sefton Park. Should be a fun afternoon."

Goddammit. John sighed and put his face in his hand; if Julia noticed, she didn't let on about it. She smiled broadly and asked, "What time?"

"We play around noon, I think."

"But times are always subject to change, y'know you can never rely on those schedules-"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll be sure to be there, John," she said pointedly, staring intently at him and clearly saying much more without saying anything at all. "And you too, Stuart. Who else is in your band?"

"Er, Pete Best is our drummer, he's another local and-" John could practically see Stuart swallowing his ego to say the next name "-this really young twerp from London is the bassist."

"London! What's he doing up here!"

"Just spending the summer," John mumbled.

"John's in love with the kid," Stuart snickered, and if he'd had the chance, John would have liked nothing more than to punch him in the fucking mouth at that moment. "Naw, but he's a pretty decent bassist. Just a bit of a weird lad."

"Well, I can't wait to see you guys tomorrow. John, is Mimi going?"

"Er...aye, I believe. Who knows with her. Sometimes I think she's proud of me for this whole thing and other times she's...well. You know."

Julia laughed, a beautiful sound that made John's heart hurt. "Yes, unfortunately I do."

"But yeah. We'll see."

...

Turns out that Mimi was, in fact, in attendance the next morning. The sight of her standing in her church clothes and loafers amongst the disarrayed youth of Liverpool all outfitted like discount punks was more than enough to make up for the fact that Julia was standing next to her. Well. In theory, it was enough. As they set up amps and he felt sick from the sun, it sure as hell didn't feel like enough. The day was too bright and cheery for this; he wanted wind and clouds and cold. They were playing the Smiths, for chrissakes.

"Hey, John," Paul greeted him wearily, and the boy's sudden presence felt like a balm. He greeted him with another tight smile, and shoved one of his flannels to the kid's chest.

"For you," he said. "So you can get 'The Hellcats' Look,' as you so put it...oh! How was it you described me again? 'Looks perfect without trying'?!"

Paul grinned and punched him in the shoulder. "You're such a tosser."

"Yeah, yeah. Well, put it on! Can't have these punks thinking we employ underage kids, now can we?"

He set Rob's bass down carefully on the slapdashedly constructed wooden platform they were performing on, then took John's red-and-black checked flannel and carefully tugged it on. As could have been expected, it was a touch on the side of being oversized, but was an old shirt of his and so was not _quite_ so big on the kid's thin frame. Unable to resist the urge, John reached out and tussled the kid's hair, earning a goofy grin.

"Looks great on ya, Macca."

"Well, shucks," Paul whistled in a mocking tone. "Thanks pop."

"Just none of that rock'n'roll, ya hear?"

"I'm afraid I've been corrupted," he said with a sigh. "By just about the worst punter I've ever met: John Lennon."

"You've gotta start watching your mouth, son," John warned, taking on a more serious tone. .

"What?" he laughed. "That's rich coming from you. You all talk like sailors."

"Well, Liverpool is a sailing town. It's in our DNA. I'm not sending you back to ol' London Town with a bloody mouth like that."

"Don't you worry about me," Paul said wryly. "I'm not returning home that soon. Plenty of time to get meself back in shape."

"That's a horrible attempt at mocking my accent."

Before Paul could respond, Stuart was walking up, sporting a nasty look. Great. It was going to be one of those days. Couldn't his girlfriend have gotten the memo about performance days? Although, John thought briefly, Stuart did sometimes play guitar better when he was violently angry. It seemed to be the driving factor in his occasional transcendental greatness at the instrument. There was a slight chance, however, that his anger cross the threshold from making him 'great' into 'shite'...only time would tell what they might be dealing with today.

"They didn't give us any proper fucking space for the fucking kit," he glowered. "We're standing on a glorified matchbox."

Yikes. The signs were not pointing towards the positive. John took Stuart's arm, leading them away from Paul, and began, "Hey, is everything-"

"I'm fucking grand, alright? I'm just trying to get everything set up while you're over in the corner kicking around with your freak."

John's mind was instantly blanked out with rage. His fists curled into balls, and he was dimly aware of raising his right hand, when suddenly Pete was pushing him backwards and to the ground. His other arm was pushing back an equally volatile Stuart. "Would you two fucking quit it?" he yelled. "You're acting like children."

"Maybe if he'd stop being a jealous cunt," John spat, his face burning with the eyes of middling audience members on him. The weight of Julia and Mimi's eyes pressed down on his chest, and he felt like he was going to explode. Stuart just turned around and walked away, and John was dimly aware that some seismic change had occurred in their relationship. It was dangerous standing on the edge of a paradigm shift like this, and he felt unbalanced and shaky as he stood up again to grab his guitar while burning with shame. Paul ( _Christ_ , stop looking over there) was standing on the edge of the stage with flying saucer eyes and the complexion of a ghost. John pointedly avoided eye contact with anyone and everyone. He was suddenly very grateful that Andie had not been able to attend today; he probably would not have been able to handle it.

Shrugging his guitar over his shoulder, he made a self-deprecating face at the audience and raised his right hand, curtsying just a tad. A few people laughed, which was enough. He blew his cheeks out, tested the microphone, then leaned in and said, "Alright, how's this fine July afternoon treating everybody?", and thus the concert began.

It wasn't really _bad,_ at least not in any common sense of the word. They got through their setlist front to back with no hitches, and not a single one of them made any egregious error that could have been picked out by the average audience member. As Stuart had complained, it was cramped on the stage, but not to the point that hindered their playing. But all of that aside, none of this meant that the gig was _good_. Not a single person on the stage could have been characterized as "having a good time'; John recited his lyrics with as much muster as he recited prayers, Stuart distantly and methodically chomped at his guitar while maintaining a thousand-yard stare, Pete was nervous and jumpy on most of his fills, and even Paul, monumentally distracted the entire time, seemed to fib some of his runs. The audience, small as they were, did not seem to be affected by any of this, although John strongly suspected it was because they just did not care all that much. He caught Julia's gaze a few times, immediately shuttering his eyes down, but could feel her watching. He tried to keep his gaze on Mimi; as tough as the woman was, she felt like home, and when he was miserable, home was all he wanted.

The show eventually concluded; as goes the T.S. Eliot number, it was not with a bang, but a whimper.

Of course, as they slogged off the stage with newly-formed sunburns and scowls, he was immediately embraced by Julia with heaps and heaps of admiration, telling him he was so brilliant and so so talented etc. etc. Mimi gave him a big hug as well, although she refrained to comment on his relative brilliance or talent, which he was witheringly grateful for. Stuart was long gone by the time he was able to send the two women on their way home ahead of him, and he was even more grateful for that bit. He didn't know if he could face the other boy for awhile. After loading amps into Pete's car and saying his merry goodbyes to the likes of Ellen and Kurt, he elected to take a walk, even on a day as ungloriously sunny and chipper as this one. He announced this to no one in particular, but of course, one boy had to focus in on it and whisk him away somewhere else.

"Do you wanna come over and play for a bit instead?"

Paul and he were sitting in the grass, half-watching a "singer-songwriter" who was probably the worst Dylan impressionist John had ever been subject to. He was also on his third ciggie of the afternoon, the vanquished butts of the unfortunate two before this one crushed into the dirt. He was blowing smoke periodically in Paul's direction, although the kid didn't seem to mind much, which made it less fun. In fact, the kid didn't seem to mind much in the way of anything; there was still this great fog of distraction hanging around him, all nervous fingers and eyes flitting away constantly. But, despite Stuart's cruel words from earlier, John supposed he really wouldn't have preferred spending the afternoon alone and wallowing than doing something (objectively) productive with Paul, which was to play music, and so he shrugged and said, "What the hell. Let's go to your yard."

The walk from Sefton to Paul's house wasn't much of a trek, although John did make them swing by his house so he could retrieve some pilfered beer bottles he'd hidden behind some peeled-off siding. He placed a few inside his coat and gave one to Paul to put under the flannel; after some whinging and nail-biting from the kid about having _alcohol_ on his _persons,_ John rolled his eyes and took it back, tucking it in the back of his jeans. They walked mostly in silence, given Paul's continued thoughtful silence, and honestly, John was just as happy to smoke in quiet and pretend to enjoy the sun.

Paul's aunt and uncle not being home, they went in through the gate to the backyard and took their rightful lawnchair thrones across from one another. John took the silence and time to remark on the backyard, which he had come to view quite fondly in these extended jams with Paul. It was small, but felt extraordinarily secluded with its high fencing in the middle of a busy street; there was something reflexively isolated about it, being surrounded on all sides by other houses and noise and traffic, but John did not feel alone. It felt like he was standing in the bottom of a basin with the world removed from him, where there was only guitar and warm beer and Paul. He felt something strange rising in his chest, but swallowed it down quickly as soon as he saw the boy staring at him.

"Would you rather me play the bass or the guitar?"

"Oh, Lord, the guitar, please. I need to hear something supernaturally talented after... _that_ ," he said. "Play me some of that blues shite."

"Well, actually," Paul began rather flatly, wrapping his arms around the back of his neck, pursing his lips. "I- uh...well, I kinda wrote something myself, I- ugh. Actually-"

"You did?" John said, feeling the beginnings of a smile start to tug at his face as he took a long sip of beer.

"Um...yes."

"Do you want to play it?"

"It's not really- well, it's not really a 'Hellcats' kind of thing, y'know-"

"Even better." Paul still looked extremely uncomfortable and John, absolutely dying to hear whatever the boy had written, leaned back further in the lawn chair and set his guitar on the ground. "I just want to listen. You're bloody talented, and you know it. Whatever you play could never be even half as bad as the one song Pete ever tried to write, which I can do a very funny impression of. _After_ you perform for me. I promise. Scout's honor."

Paul, maybe still not quite so assured, sighed nonetheless and shifted his acoustic and brought his fingers to the strings. He closed his eyes, humming a bit to himself for a moment, then began.

It was a simple three-chord progression, simpler than John might have thought, but there was a holy sadness in them that rung out from the very first strum. Paul's eyes were still closed as he began to sing, voice cracking and pleading, wrought with emotion but still possessing of the same clear and resonant tone he always carried. _"Laugh when your eyes are burning...smile when your heart is filled with pain,"_ he sang, and with anyone else these platitudes would have sounded dramatic and ridiculously adolescent, but when Paul sang them, they were so bloody _genuine_ that he knew how fucking real that pain was, and he sat still, motionless and breathless.

The chorus lilted upwards, Paul's pre-adolescent voice shifting up easily as he sang, " _It's not right, in one life...too...much...rain..."_

Then he stopped himself. It was needless to say his face was more red than John had ever seen, if that was even remotely possible, and he coughed and said, "Well, that's all I've got so far." He wasn't looking at John, obviously dying for and terrified of what his reaction would be, but John honestly couldn't really say anything. He continued his act of motionlessness for a moment before reaching down and handing one of his beers to Paul, who finally looked back at him with blank horror in his expression.

"Have you had any before?"

"...no?"

"Here. Let me open it."

Paul passed it back wordlessly, letting the other boy pop the cap off with a flick of his wrist and scrunched up shirt before handing it back again, warm and fizzing. The boy held it with both hands like it was a deadly anaconda.

"It's alright. You should just try it." He watched intently and silently as Paul hesitantly brought it to his lips, taking the tiniest sip imaginable, then overdramatically scrunching his face up. John waited a moment before saying, "You're a genius, Paul. Do you know that?"

"So now it's Paul again, eh?" he said weakly, but John barely even registered it.

"That's- Paul, I'm not exaggerating."

The kid stared at him for a solid moment, as though he were expecting him to start laughing, but John did not. He furrowed his eyebrows.

"I'm not a genius, John, it's just a dumb song."

"You know most 14-year-olds don't just write songs like that, right? Hell, fuck most, I don't think _any_ do." He paused. "I hope you know I'm being serious, I'm not just fucking with you or anything."

"I wouldn't think you would do that, John."

"And I'm not just saying all of this to flatter you either, alright? I'm being- I hope you can tell by the tone in my voice that I'm being serious. I mean, from the 30 seconds you played me it's not like, the greatest song ever written, but _fuck_ Paul, it's better than 75% of the shite you hear on the radio! Do you understand how fucking- I mean, you have a _natural gift,_ Paul."

Paul didn't say anything. He was staring, a bit perplexedly, at a space just to the left of John's face, and he slowly brought the beer bottle back up to his lips again. He took another tiny swing and said, "This tastes like fucking garbage, by the way."

John burst out into laughter "I- ...that's all you have to say?"

The kid shrugged, but was poorly hiding a sly grin. "S'pose so. I mean, I hear stuff like this everyday, you understand. Rolling Stone just published an article talking about what a _genius_ I am."

"You're such a little shit. My my my."

Paul joined him in laughter, and picked up his guitar again. "Alright, now that you're done going on and on about what a _genius_ I am, can we play some bloody music?"

"While I agree, you really do need to stop cursing."

"Aye, drop it..."

They were both beaming, feeding off of each other's warm energy, basking in the sun and giddy and loose from the beer they steadily drank. It was quite obvious it was Paul's first ever drink, for a multitude of reasons beyond how he kept tripping up over simple chords and descending into fits of laughter at John's stupid voices, even breaking out into belts of his own after some time. They sang every song they both knew; oldies, staples, shitty radio hits. John wailed out some Elvis and Paul, excited beyond belief, answered in return, before joining into semi-drunk harmony for 'Hound Dog,' half the chords forgotten but both too giddy to care. There was a moment where John was almost outside himself for a minute, observing this strange afternoon, how he was having the time of his life drinking pilfered beer and singing Elvis with the dorkiest 14-year-old he'd almost hated at first meeting, but when he put himself back in the moment he found that he had never been happier.

"I like this, Macca...your backyard is so nice," John said, speech only slightly slurred.

"It's a nice little place, innit?" he grinned. "Chaos and creation in my backyard!"

"Chaos?"

"Only slightly. And it makes a good catchphrase, doesn't it? I quite like that."

John quirked a grin at him. "When you release your solo album-"

"Oi."

" _When_ you release your solo album...you can name it that. In honor of me, of course. God knows where I'll be by then. Probably still stuck in Liddypool while you're off gallavanting with the upper crust of London society."

"Blech. I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon."

"No doubt you'll have the lovely Dot on your arm by then."

Paul rolled his eyes, but he noted that there was no blush this time. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Just wait til she finds out you're in a band, Macca! You'll have every girl in London Town competing for that little arm of yours."

The kid looked at said arm, as though hordes of teenage girls were suddenly about to materialize on to it, then shook his head. "You're such a weird bloke sometimes, John."

"I'm only telling you this from personal experience. I would not have attracted half the girls- maybe more than half- more than _half_ the girls I seduce with just my ugly mug," he tutted, putting on his schoolteacher voice. "It's been my rugged singing voice and raw on-stage charm! Ha-ha. No, but you'll have it easier, anyroad," he said, drinking quickly after the last bit as to swallow some of his words. It didn't quite work. Paul looked up at him with the same stupid face.

"How do you mean?" he asked, amused.

"I mean..." John scoffed. "Come off it, you're gonna be a cutie in a few years, that on top of your voice...the birds won't stand a chance." He was trying to be funny, but Paul wasn't looking at him like it was funny. John didn't necessarily think it was very funny, either. It might have been because he actually quite meant it. He swallowed uncomfortably and desperately searched his beer-addled brain for anything else to say, but it was a blank. He shot a glance at Paul, who seemed to still be in some serious thought, and so he picked up his guitar and starting picking out random notes. Anything to distract himself. He whistled a tuneless tune, trying to match pitch, and ended up on an old Beatles song, one he remembered from Mimi's oldies station.

_"Because I've told you before, oooooohhhh! You can't do that..."_

"That's a good one," Paul said quietly. "I've always been partial to that album. We should...we should cover it, y'know."

John snorted. "Right. Like a bloody Beatles cover would ever fly with Stu. He thinks they're the lilliest of the lily-livered. He _hates_ them. I've never understood it. I mean, they're old but...they wrote all the best songs. Well. Actually that designation goes to Bowie, but regardless."

"I actually haven't listened to any Bowie."

Seeing the opportune moment, John did an overexaggerated spittake all over Paul, who was simultaneously laughing like mad and screaming, "You absolute punter! You're _awful_ , John!"

"Aye, I know, it's just on _my_ flannel anyroad. Hand it over."

Paul, still sputtering, wrangled himself out of John's flannel and flung it at him. It landed with a damp plunk in John's lap, and he raised his eyebrows at the boy, which only made him laugh harder.

"I should make you pay to have this cleaned."

"It's you- your bloody fault," he managed between hiccups and giggles, totally off his rocker after only one and a half beers.

"Oh, I'm sure. Lest we forget you're the one who _caused_ this in the first place after never having listened to any fucking Bowie?!"

"Er...never is an exaggeration, I think. I watched Labyrinth when I was a kid."

John smacked himself over the head. "Sometimes I think you're brilliant, and then you say stuff like this."

"Labyrinth is a good movie!"

"I'm no saying it's not, I just need you to understand that you have a wildly meager portrait of living legend David Bowie from the fucking gremlin movie. Haven't you ever heard of 'Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars'?"

"Er...heard of it."

"But never listened?"

"Perhaps not?"

"Alright," he said, shaking his head. "This is just ridiculous. Listen, whenever I don't have work next, I'm bringing you over for lunch at Julia's and she's going to play you some Bowie. She's a massive Bowie fan; even massiver than me. She told me she wanted to name me after him, but oh well."

"David Lennon?" Paul snorted. "That's funny."

"Doesn't fit, right? Guess it was all for the best. But...really. Would you want to...y'know. Visit me mum with me?"

"Sure," Paul hiccuped. "Although I thought that was just a Stu thing?"

"Oi," he warned, his voice flashing darker. There was something in Paul's face that was slightly troubling him, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Perhaps it was just the beer; his eyes were unfocused and a little glassy, but the smirk his mouth had settled into was what really bothered him. Feeling strange, he stood up suddenly.

"Where are you going?"

"I've gotta go home, son. And you need to try and sleep off some of this alcohol before your aunt and uncle are home. I don't want them thinking I'm corrupting you."

"They won't be back until Tuesday," Paul said, as though this was matter-of-fact.

"Oh. Well, er...still best to sleep it off. Wow, did they really leave right after the concert? And they're really leaving you alone for that long?"

"I'm not a problem child," he said. "Unlike some."

"Ha-ha. Yes, yes. Very funny." He stooped down to pick up his guitar case, then sighed and waved to Paul like he was on the balcony of the Titanic. "See you soon, Macca! Rest ye weary bones!"

"Aye, aye, captain," he responded with a wink. John paled instantly.

That fucking wink haunted him the rest of the night.


	4. Here, There, and Everywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the late update! hope you guys enjoy this one and, as always, i looove to hear feedback

August faded into existence unannounced, foggy and bleary with too much rain. The heat did not abate, though, and so they were all trapped in this bloated nightmare with sweat and steam that rose from the pavement every time the sun came out. John's head felt like it was a perpetual state of fuzziness, and he wandered the streets aimlessly, feeling dull and sick. This was supposed to be his summer of freedom. He didn't feel free at all. He felt bogged down, submerged in goo; between his job, constant errands for Mimi, lunches with Julia, band rehearsals, fights with Stuart, it was like there was no time for him to be alone with himself anymore. There were two beacons of light in this: Andie and Paul. In that order. Maybe. Andie was the breeze that blew through the steam and cut it, let him breathe something clean for once. Paul was- well, he wasn't quite sure what Paul was, but it was something _good_ ; he was spending a considerable amount of time at Paul's family's house, playing guitar in the backyard and drinking beer and eating shitty food and talking music with Kurt. Paul was becoming something akin to a best mate, he'd begun to realize. When he was in his company he just felt like... _himself_. He didn't feel like he was constantly performing for his attention or validation. Oftentimes they were fine just to sit in the grass across from each other and fiddle around on the guitars, not having to say anything, just coexisting comfortably. One afternoon they had laid in the grass a few feet apart and stared up at the sky, thatched with wind-blown clouds, and Paul had talked about his mom. That feeling of trust with someone was indescribable.

It went without saying that he was getting a lot of shit from Stuart over this.

It started with little jabs, making fun of him the same way he had the past few weeks for his softness for Paul, but in August it all seemed to escalate into something far nastier. Stuart had called him a faggot in the past, but it had always been re: his shitty music taste or something, never just out of the blue with the intent to hurt him. Now it was just that. John had never considered himself particularly sensitive to insults like that, typically dismissing them as meaningless bullshit, but now when he heard it he just felt tired and small. He couldn't really muster up responses to them either, just sort of waving them off with his hand. That might have pissed Stuart off more, actually.

Paul was more or less only dimly aware of this, seemingly. He carried on his act of quietness around the other boys during rehearsal, and John began to notice how his character was like night and day when comparing how he was with John alone against how he was at rehearsal. It made him feel strangely special. But still, it did not appear that any of Stuart's nastiness was confrontationally directed at Paul, although it was clear he was harboring some massive resentment and bitterness towards the kid. The brunt of it was just landing on John. Most of it exploded during band rehearsals; since the ill-fated performance at Sefton Park, he and Stuart had not interacted outside of Pete's basement. It was over petty, nitpicky details as well: John's mic was up too loud, his guitar was out of tune, he wasn't following the rhythm, etc. etc. These comments ceased to mean anything in their neverending onslaught. After hours in a blizzard, the body goes numb. John was numb.

But not with Paul. Or Andie.

And on the brief occasions he was not in the company of a family member, bandmate, or Mr. McDonald, John stole the occasional evening out with Andie. It wasn't really anything serious, yet, but he hoped it might be. She was funny and smart and kind and had dark, dark hair...

"John. There's a customer."

His eyes suddenly flew open. _Yes_. He was still at work. Oh, Christ. He put on an overexaggerated smile and began, "How may I help you today?"

...

When John got home later that afternoon he was not in a good mood.

It was fucking Mimi who did it in the end, yelling about him stomping in the house or some other shite, so he'd retreated angrily to his room with a few choice words shouted over his shoulder. He flopped on his bed and immediately reached for the landline, cradling it in his shoulder and dialing Andie's number. She picked up in two seconds flat, bless her heart.

"John!" she exclaimed exaltedly, and his blood rushed. "I was just thinking about you."

"Aye, care to elaborate?" he said, quiet and low, smirking to himself.

"Just thinking about the other night...say, would you wanna go out tonight?"

"You've read my mind. That's just what I was calling to ask about."

"Oh, lovely!"

Her voice brought light and buoyancy to his chest, and he sighed relievedly. It was truly a miracle that a girl as drop-dead gorgeous as her was interested in him at _all_. He knew he was a charmer, but he was also, admittedly, a bit funny-looking with his big nose and squinty eyes. And Andie had been with Todd Fletcher before him, a fact that shivered him to his bones every time Andie looked at him and he was terrified that she might have been missing Todd's flaxen hair and cornflower blue eyes. But if she did, she sure as hell wasn't letting in on it so far.

"How 'bout we say I pick you up in an hour or so and we go out to see a movie or something, yeah?"

"I'd love to, John."

"Splendid. See you soon."

"Ta, see you soon."

The end call tone bleated in his ear and John thanked whatever God was up there that Andie Elliot ever happened to attend that Hellcats' show. He should have mentioned that to Paul; being in a band was just about the most surefire way to get a girl. It wasn't like fuckin' _Pete_ could have landed the blonde goddess that was Nancy Stevens on his looks alone. There was power in that stage; when everything was right, the world stood at attention, and women fell at their feet. It could be a bit of a power trip, truth be told, and John was sure that this Dot girl would be running to Paul by the end of the summer when she heard his bass playing. He made a mental note to relay this to the kid the next day, hoping this would continue livening his spirits.

His mood suitably improved, John snuck back downstairs to attempt an apology for Mimi (even though she'd dealt the first blow, technically).

"I'm sorry for stomping," he huffed. "I swear it won't happen again."

"You don't have to overdo it like that, John," Mimi said measuredly, although he could detect a hint of satisfaction in her voice. She was sitting at the kitchen table listening to the oldies stationed turned down low, deftly knitting or darning or crocheting something, hell if he knew. He figured now was as good a time as any to announce his evening departure.

"Well, anyroad, on that note, I'm heading out for the night."

Mimi's eyes shot up, boring into him. "With who? It's not those boys, is it?"

"You mean Stu and Pete? No, no it's a girl- Andie Elliot, you know her mom, don't you?"

"Oh, yes," she said with a note of surprised pleasantry, although she still had her eyebrows furrowed. "What is she doing going out with you?"

"Har-har. She saw me at one of my shows."

The divot between her eyebrows deepened. "Oh. She's one of those girls."

"Christ, Mimi, it's not like that-"

"Language."

"She's not like _that_!"

"Well, alright. Be home soon, please. Where are you going?"

"We're going to see a film."

"Alright, just please be home soon. And drive safe, John."

"I always do. Love you, Mimi," he said, and kissed her on the top of the head. She touched his hand and echoed the sentiment.

Feeling like a free man, he ambled over to his car and unlocked it. There were papers all over the passenger seat; with a gut-wrenching kick he realized they were Paul's, instantly recognizing the boy's neat, cramped handwriting sloping across the crumpled pages, transcriptions of John's lyrics. He climbed into the car and picked them up tenderly, stacking them carefully and neatly and sliding them into the glove compartment. He was spending tomorrow afternoon at Paul's house anyroad, he would take them over then. Suddenly the oddness of it all struck John; he was spending a _lot_ of time at a 14-year-old boy's house. The sudden realization of how bloody strange it was weighed down on him, and he caught his eyes in the rear view mirror. They were squinting, of course, and he made a face at himself. Then he thought: _well, maybe it isn't normal for me to be so close with a kid so much younger than me who in the grand scheme of things I've essentially only just met._

But he did't want to think about that right then. Shaking his head as though to cast those thoughts away, he turned his car on and thought instead of lovely lovely Andie Elliot, more excited than ever to see her. He had a good feeling about this girl, even if she was ridiculously out of his league. He was going to take her tonight to see the new Terminator movie, and was desperately hoping for a bit of alone time with her before and after. He felt he properly deserved it after such a shite week, consider he was facing abuse from both Stuart and Mimi. The whole ride over to Andie's house he kept thinking the same thing: _Christ, she is so gorgeous._

Standing on her doorstep when he pulled to the side of the curb beside her apartment, she embodied the fantasy vision of herself he'd held in his head, and more. She was wearing a black tank top that (dear God) was pulled down a bit and John's idiot 17-year-old lizard brain interfered with his ability to drive. She laughed (she was so beautiful when she laughed) and walked up to his rolled-down window to lean in and give him a kiss. His brain melted. This was going to be a very good night, indeed.

"Hi, love," she grinned, and walked around the side of the car to get in. He waited for her to get in before grinning and pulling her into a deep kiss.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, kissing her hand.

"You're such a gentleman, John," she giggled.

They arrived at the movies in due time and bought tickets and popcorn and sodas and whatnot and John turned up the charm for Andie, paying for everything (though he did not mention his money was procured through McDonald's employeeship) and acting the perfect gentleman, beyond delighted to have her hanging on his arm. He was genuinely excited to watch the movie and even more so just to be in the company of Andie when, of all the people he could have seen there, sitting in front of them in the tiny theater was none other than little Paulie McCartney.

His oversized bobble head was blocking the screen, and John sunk defeatedly into his seat, knowing it would make him a complete jackass to whack the kid over the head with a seat cushion but still _really_ enthralled by the idea. He didn't know why Paul's presence was already ruining his mood, but it was, and that in turn only pissed him off more, thus feeding into the vicious cycle. He _liked_ Paul, now, his presence shouldn't have been causing him this much undue annoyance. He couldn't see who Paul was sitting next to; all he could make out of his silhouette illuminated by the movie screen was a short haircut and big ears. He might have been smaller than Paul, possibly. He was momentarily distracted by Andie's hand slipping into his, squeezing it gently and smiling brightly at him. God. He was such a fucking softie, sometimes.

20 minutes into the movie, mellowed out somewhat by copious amounts of popcorn and peeks down Andie's shirt, he finally decided to tap Paul on the shoulder. The boy's head turned slowly in the darkness, and the moment that Paul recognized him felt like an eternity in suspense. His entire face brightened, eyes crinkling at the corners and mouth spreading delightedly across his face, something... _beautiful_ in it unfolding. John immediately felt like he had been sacked in the gut; his entire body froze, his mouth went dry, all the blood rushed to his head. Paul's flashing eyes floated solitary in the darkness. His mouth curled up to the side, and leaning slowly over the back of the seat, he said lowly, "Fancy seeing you here," in a mocking voice. The mocking part of that equation did little to stop his mind from reaching a breaking point. John felt like he couldn't _breathe_. He stood up suddenly and stumbled his way out of the theater, followed by Andie and Paul's confused gazes.

He crouched over the sink in the movie theater bathroom and splashed his face with cold water over and over again. When he slowly looked back up to meet his own gaze, hair dripping with water, his pupils were blown out and unfocused, a deep red blooming across his cheeks that burned when he brought trembling fingers to it. He felt like he was going insane, his chest expanding and falling at an exponential rate the longer he desperately tried to understand what was happening. _It's just Paul, it's just Paul, stop having a bloody panic attack_ , he tried to rationalize desperately. So why did it feel like he was about to explode? He'd smoked half of a blunt earlier- maybe that was it? (although he knew better than that) He brought his hands down to the ceramic sink and braced himself against it, knuckles turning white, and squeezed his eyes shut.

 _Three_. He was going to stop thinking. _Two_. He was _really_ going to stop thinking. _One_. He was going to walk back into that theater.

He walked back into the theater, sheepish and red-faced, while a ten-foot tall Schwarzenegger battled other robots or some shite, and took his place beside Andie again. Paul was slumped down low in his seat, so low he could only just identify him by the tuft of hair that was always sticking up. _Don't think about that_. Andie took his arm and looked at him with deep concern, whispering, "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Just got a bit sick, s'all," he lied very unconvincingly. In the darkness, he couldn't really tell if she bought it or not, but she didn't question him any further. "I had an awful lunch, you know how it is." She still didn't say anything, but took his hand again and squeezed it as though to shut him up. Paul didn't turn around again the whole movie, and when it finally ended, the boy was gone before he could even try to say goodbye.

...

Two days later they were back at rehearsal again. The September 2nd date of the Orange 17 gig was steadily closing in, and their set was still rather unpolished and unfocused, depraved of the only thing that sometimes saved moderately shitty bands, which was joy. Pete's damp, dim basement had to have been the most joy-depraved room in all of Liverpool that month. The set was a whopping twelve songs long, and it was a slog rehearsing all of them. It was populated mostly by Hellcats' originals, interspersed between the covers from last time and some others, by the Kinks and the Stone Roses and whatnot. Quite genuinely, one of the only songs he was excited to play was a Beatles cover, which went to show how invested he was in the whole ordeal. His disinterest was mostly deprived from his rapidly deteriorating relationship with Stuart. Before, fighting with Stuart had sucked, of course, but it was just how their relationship was and it meant things were normal, at least. Now, they weren't even fighting anymore. They weren't around each other long enough to fight, and you can't necessarily get into a fight with someone when you aren't talking to them. Things remained in this awful stasis that was actively driving him nuts and draining every last bit of joy out of this band. But _that_ was arguably not even the worst part. Things between him and Paul were... _weird_. Ever since the theater incident John had had a really hard time even looking the kid in the face, and had flaked out on them hanging out the day before. He could tell Paul was upset, rightly so, and he hated himself even more for it. But the truth was that he didn't need to be friends with someone like John. He was a terrible influence, clearly, and a freak on top of it. So it was best to stay away.

"You're not staying on top of the beat when we play 'Helter Skelter.'"

These were the first words Paul had spoken to him all day. It only seemed right that they would be criticisms of his musical performance. He'd come to the basement door where John was outside smoking just to tell him this, apparently. When John only made a humming noise and continued smoking, Paul punched him annoyedly in the shoulder.

"Why are you ignoring me?"

John rolled his eyes, and let his ciggie fall to the pavement before squashing it with his heel. "M'not ignoring you," he said flatly.

"Do you want to come over this afternoon?"

"I have to work tonight."

Paul's face twisted up, like a petulant toddler, and he opened his mouth like he was going to say something but then turned around and walked away. Rehearsal began again and, again, it was just barely dragging along. The kid wasn't paying attention, _again_ ; he'd gone up into the little hidey-hole in his brain like he always did, eyes glassy like a doll's and expression utterly blank as he missed his entrances and fumbled lines. John hated himself. He didn't _not_ want to be around Paul, it was just a bit weird and confusing at the moment. And he was trying and failing not to look at him approximately every nanosecond, which made him feel even shittier. They hit a snag in 'Jacob's Ladder' and the kid almost dropped his bass, cursing and walking away with his shoulders drawn tight. He looked like a little Stuart, and John _really_ hated himself. So, with little fanfare, during their next break he called his manager and faked a cough and took the night off. Then he made a face at Paul from across the room, and shrugged his shoulders, and he seemed to get the message.

As always, John drove them. He felt a tiny bit more _right_ seeing Paul in the passenger seat, happy as could be while sifting through papers and babbling about music theory.

"I hope you didn't really think I was ignoring you," he began, trying to sound nonchalant.

"No, course not," he said brightly, but he strongly suspected this was also a bit of a fib.

"But I'm sorry for cancelling yesterday, anyroad."

"S'fine..." he said, albeit a bit absently. His gaze wandered out the window, and John looked nervously between him and the road.

"Are you-"

"No, I'm not mad." His eyes swung back to John, and he smiled, a real smile, and a tiny part of John was put to rest. He felt a weary facsimile of the thing tugging at his own face. "You git. I'd never be mad at you. Not really, I don't think. Unless you like...iono. Did something really horrible."

A thousand thoughts burned shamefully on the edge of his tongue, and he felt himself turning red and weakly nodding, "Aye..."

"Were you- are you mad at me?"

"No!" he said, perhaps a bit too forcefully, and Paul gave him a weird look. "No, no...never, Macca. Although. Y'know, unless you did something really awful."

Paul snorted. "Me? Never! I am a child of God."

"I'm sure," John snickered, pulling into his regular parking spot across from Paul's house.

They went in through the back gate to the house, John exchanging some perfunctory hugs and hellos with Paul's aunt and uncle and was fixed some sort of fruity alcoholic summer drink he was very much pleased to be in possession of, and he and Paul retreated to their places in the backyard. John stole some sort of lawnchair chaise lounge thing (lawnchaise?) and stretched himself out all the way, legs propped up and sunglasses pulled low on his face. He had half a mind to ask Paul, sitting in the grass beside him with his bass, to feed him grapes. His stomach plunged at the thought; _best not to think about it..._

He was brought back from the pit by Paul's hesitant laugh, and he snapped over to look at him.

"What is it?"

"You look like an old cat. Sunning yourself like that."

John smirked a little, shifting further down in the chaise and yawning exaggeratedly. "I love cats," he said. "And, on a completely unrelated note, you should have let me know about this fantastic chair much earlier in our friendship. Then I'd really be over here all the time." Expecting a laugh but receiving nothing, John peeked over his shoulder down at the boy, who was sitting still and deep in thought. He scooted up a bit and pulled his sunglasses down to the end of his nose. "Paul?"

Paul, still staring oddly at the ground, suddenly said, "John, we're friends...right?"

John stared at him agape for a moment before realizing it was not a joke. He laughed, but it sounded forced. "What are you talking about, you git? Of course we're- I mean, _of course_ we're friends." Sensing something deeper was wrong, he swung his legs over the side of the chair and looked properly at Paul. He looked... _sad_. "Paul, what is this about?"

"You looked at me in the theater when you were with that girl and you looked like you wanted to throw up," he muttered, so quietly at first that he was sure he had misheard him. Then the words began to take some shape, and he suddenly felt like shit again. _Of course_ that was what Paul thought had happened; he had no reason to think otherwise. And, in a sense, John had seen him in that theater and then felt sick but it wasn't... _like that._ Not the way that Paul thought it was. But the thought of trying to begin explaining to Paul what it really was seemed a fate worse than boiling to death in a McDonald's greaser vat; John couldn't even explain the bloody thing to himself, like fuck he would try and bring Paul into it. It was unfair, and once again, the self-loathing he harbored grew to such a point that he didn't know what to do. What he could even say.

"If you don't want to be friends with me, that's fine, I don't- I don't care just tell me, please, don't drag me along just to make fun of me with Stu or whatever-"

"Are you fucking crazy?" John suddenly spat, unable to control himself at that last bit. "Are you- Jesus, Paul, do you really think that's what I think of you?!"

There was terror and shame and misery in Paul's burning expression, and John lept out of the chair and to the ground across from him, taking the boy's hands in his own. Paul looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"i just..." Paul's eyes were rimmed with red, his pasty hands clammy in John's but so bloody _warm_ that it was like he could feel this heat, the heat of the sun and the heat of Paul, merging and flowing through him and changing something inside, making him glow from the inside out. He could not help but grin deliriously as he brought Paul's hands up and squeezed them and said, firmly, "You are my friend, Paul, and you're a better friend to me than Stu, anyroad. I mean, you know how wonderful I think you are, right? You're- you're a genius and you're hilarious and kind and understanding and smart and..." he trailed off, feeling himself burning up again. He shook his head sheepishly. "I care about you, Paul. S'all I mean."

For a brief moment- and he would think about this moment a lot in the years to come- John was staring into Paul's eyes, and he noticed how hazel they were for the first time, glowing brown in the sunshine and he watched as they broke from his gaze to his mouth, and there was this terrifying pulsating electricity between them, like static cling or the air before a lightning strike and John thought for a split second, only the tiniest fraction of time, _He's going to kiss me._

But he didn't.

He burst out crying instead.

John recoiled mostly in shock, not completely expecting the reaction he was faced with, and did not really know what to do. He wasn't the comforting type, naturally, having been raised by Mimi, but with Paul he let his instincts drive him somehow and he pulled the boy into a hug. He was shaking really bad, shoulders rising and falling at an erratic and rapidly increasing rate, and he was terrified for a moment that he was having a panic attack or something. But then it seemed that something in him broke; he surrendered entirely to John, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck as his sobs grew less and less violent, slowly fading as John rocked him back and forth. The boy felt so small, so fragile. He could feel the weight of his pain, the weight he was carrying on those thin shoulders. He tucked Paul's head into the crook of his neck and held him tightly, hand placed in the space between his shoulders. The desire to stroke soft dark hair momentarily flashed through him, but he ignored it.

"I'm- I'm really sorry, this is-" Paul's apology devolved into another hiccuping sob, and John laughed softly and patted him on the back.

"Don't apologize," he said. "It's okay."

"This is really embarrassing," he mumbled, half-cry, half-laugh.

"Yeah, you're right."

That earned him a soft jab in the ribs, rightly so, and he mimed great pain and fell back into the grass dramatically, clutching his wounded side and yowling like a cat. Paul burst into laughter, much much preferred to him crying, and started pretending to kick him. He rolled over in the grass and kicked back, not having felt this young since before adolescence, surely. He took his shoe off and lobbed it at the boy, scampering backwards like a crab across the backyard and almost dissolving into laughter as Paul chased after him.

"Ah, fuck off!" he yelled. "Let off and let me get back to my damn mojito, you insolent child!"

"It's not a mojito, you moron-"

"Whatever it is, I'd like to drink it without-"

Paul jabbed him in the ribs again and he growled, gnashing his teeth and pretending to be a dog and whatnot. This caused Paul to begin his horrible impersonation of a bulldog, howling and yipping, which just about destroyed John. He had no idea why it was so funny, but he was about 40% sure he might have keeled over from some sort of laughter-based heart attack, if that was such a thing. He army crawled back to the chaise and retrieved his not-mojito, sitting up neatly with his legs crossed and sipping innocuously at it. Paul eventually let off and came to sit beside him, pulling his bass back into his lap. His face was glowing, all tears forgotten apparently (he was a hormonal teenager, after all), and his eyes crinkled at the corners and cheeks flushed. John pointedly stared at his drink.

"I think I've finally figured out what's so wrong with the bassline in 'Push Me Over,'" Paul finally said, playing random bits on the strings and looking over at John.

"Aye?"

"Sing the first verse for a moment, I'll show you what I mean."

"Should I grab my guitar?"

"Nah, no point, just sing."

So John swallowed, and set his drink down, cleared his throat exaggeratedly. The words to that song, like most of his songs, was complete and utter nonsense, halfway lifted from Lewis Carroll or otherwise just random gibberish he hoped no one was paying particular attention to. Stripped down to just his voice and Paul's bass, he was cringing just the slightest as he fumbled over some very poorly written lyrics. But as Paul began to play, it seemed to matter much less. He was doing something supremely interesting that he couldn't quite put a finger on. 'Push Me Over' wasn't a particularly sad or slow song, but he was playing it like it was, and it worked in a strange way. He enjoyed it.

"Sounds good, Macca," he took a swig of his drink and grinned. "As per usual."

"I'm really starting to enjoy the bass, honestly. There's a certain level of creativity to it...figuring out what to play and such. It's a supplemental beauty...hey, have you heard the Red Hot Chili Peppers?" John shook his head and he explained, "They're an American band. Just came out with a really good album, anyway, the bassist it- Christ, he's crazy!"

"In a good way?"

"Here, we can go up to my room, I'll play the album for you."

"Oh," John said, and stared down into his drink. For some reason the idea of being alone with Paul in his bedroom was making him very uncomfortable. Maybe it was a bad idea, but it was definitely be worse (probably) to refuse, as it would just attract more attention as to why he would do that. So he shrugged, feigning indifference, and followed Paul into the house and up the stairs to his very, very small bedroom.

It was right at the top of the stairs, and was maybe two meters wide and four meters long, with a small, squat window at the very end of the room that overlooked the street. Beneath it was a neatly-made twin bed with blue sheets, and a nightstand with a stack of books and a glass of water. The only other discernible items in the room were his guitar case and four milk crates of records beside an old record player. John stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, feeling much too large to be in this glorified closet, having the horrible feeling that he was encroaching on something very intimate. Paul walked lightly around him to the milk crates, and started thumbing through them before brandishing an album with four faces and tongues intertwined around roses. He handed it to John.

"What's it called?"

"'Blood Sugar Sex Magik.'"

John snorted. "Right up your alley, son."

"Very funny. Alright, you've got to listen," and he sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the record player, fooling with the needle. John copied his movements and sat beside him, painfully aware of the few centimeters between their knees. "Listen to the bass."

The song he'd put up opened with a jarring slam and the guttural yells of a guy who sounded like he had too much testosterone in his system. The lyrics were imperceptible, rapped with faux(?)-anger, and John quirked an eyebrow at Paul.

"Didn't think you'd be into this kind of stuff," he said.

"Listen to the bass! You're not listening to the bass."

John sighed, rolled his eyes, and leaned closer in towards the speakers. He was so close to Paul, he could feel the heat emanating from his body, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn't really listening to the bass; Paul's quiet, mechanical breathing was a tad distracting. He was trying to block it out, trying to listen, trying to get the kid out of his goddamn head, but in this tiny room his senses were entirely consumed by him; his familiar scent of Ivory soap, his warmth, his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks and the ghost of a smile over his lips as they listened to this godawful fucking song about giving it away and all John could think about was Paul and his chest tightening as he thought how easy it would be to reach forward and slip his hand through his and-

"Fuck," John suddenly shouted. "It's almost- it's gotten so late. I've gotta get home." He stood up too quickly and banged his head hard against the sloping ceiling. " _Fuck_!" he yelped, hands flying to his head. "Fucking fucking fuck-"

"Oh my god! Are you okay?"

"I'm _fine_ ," John cursed, hand pressed firmly over the smarting bump on his forehead, teeth gritted and cursing to himself as he walked to the door.

"Do you need a band-aid, or-"

"I need to go _home_ , Paul."

He couldn't dare look back at Paul, but the sudden silence was enough to go by. This wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair for either of them, that John couldn't just shut his brain up, stop thinking about him every goddamn second, think about Andie or anyone else and not about a 14-year-old _boy_...his stomach was opening up into that awful churning pit again, and he wanted to scream, needed to scream to get all this fucking shit out of his system or run and hide where he couldn't keep hurting and pushing away people like this when it wasn't their fucking fault.

"I'm sorry," he said, barely above a whisper, and started down the stairs. Paul said something he didn't quite catch, but he didn't stop to hear it.

 _This is ridiculous,_ he thought angrily as he walked out to his car. _This is beyond ridiculous. Paul is your mate, you're treating him like shit, you deserve the guillotine..._

"Wait up! Christ!" He was halfway in his car when he heard the shout behind him, and reluctantly turned to see Paul half-jogging after him across the street. He didn't look so upset as he thought; there was a strange smile on his face, coming to stand in front of John slightly out of breath. "You're half-deaf, I swear to God. If this were a movie I would have been hit by a car while I was following after you, and you would have spent the rest of your life in agony and guilt," he laughed. "Also, you forgot your guitar."

John grimaced. "The hit to me head must have made me forget it again." He paused for a second, then sighed. "Sorry about running out like that, uh...I have really got to get home, though."

"I thought you got off work," Paul said, sounding sad and childish.

"I did, but I forgot I promised Julia I'd come over and have dinner with her tonight. I'm sorry," he said, adding the last bit hastily.

"Oh, okay," he shrugged. "Um, your guitar-"

"Oh, er, could you just bring it to our next rehearsal? I've really got to get going."

Paul, as usual, put up his face of amiable indifference, and nodded. "Yeah, sure. Have fun at your mom's."

"Yeah, thanks. And er- the record was pretty shite, so you know."

Paul laughed. "Thanks! I'll make a note not to make you listen to any more Chili Peppers. But the bass is so good!"

"I'm sure it is, although I'm somewhat partial to your playing," he winked, and opened his car door again. "Anyway, gotta go. I'll see you soon, son."

Paul waited for him to drive off, and he stole glances of the boy standing on the side of the road in his rearview mirror, looking small and waving unsurely, and felt his chest tighten again. His knuckles were paper-white around the steering wheel, blood pounding between his ears. The bit about going to Julia's for dinner had been a bald-faced lie to get out of Paul's house, and one he felt bad about, but now he found himself driving to hers, aided by this horrible aching to be in the presence of someone who wasn't going to make him go crazy. He felt relatively positive about Julia lately, and knew that she would be happy to see him too. He rounded the corner, spotting Paul in the rearview mirror one last tine, a little black smudge that could have been anything from so far away. He blinked furiously, and tried not to think about how his eyes burned with tears unfalling.


	5. Run For Your Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter of part I!! woo-hoo!
> 
> also, i finally got a new laptop which means i can actually autocorrect stuff and...wow i had like a gross amount of spelling errors in this story fffshfk so i apologize for that.

August dragged on. And on. And on.

In a strange way, John felt it wasn't dragging on long enough at all. The weeks were disappearing down the drain, running down to the dreaded Orange 17 gig and, even worse, Paul's going home. Things were not getting any less strange or confusing with Paul, but he was still going to be sad when the kid left, he knew that. It was starting to become a constant reminder every rehearsal, looking over at Paul happily bopping his head to the beat of Pete's drum, thinking, _I'm not going to see him every day anymore._

The discussion of what they were going to do when Paul left was starting to become a larger band issue as well, mostly considering as Paul had become the backbone for their sound. None of them really knew any bassists, at least none that were anywhere as good as Paul, and it had been demonstrated again and again just how poorly the band functioned without the support of the bass. Even Stuart could admit it that, which was _really_ saying something. He supposed they were just going to carry on as they had before, but with John also starting school in the fall and the other two boys going back as well, it was beginning to seem less and less likely that the Hellcats would even survive past the end of the summer. Which only made the Orange 17 gig more and more important, as there was a certain unspoken expectation between the band members that they needed to go out with a bang. They were rehearsing almost every day then, in the final week leading up to the gig, and the set was alright. It still wasn't _exceptional_ , but they rarely were, and it was ridiculously better than it had been compared to the beginning of summer.

And so, without much fanfare, the day of the gig arrived, and John was scared shitless.

A few hours into the afternoon they headed to Pete's house for a final rehearsal and run-through. They made their way through the set, after nervously appraising the concert posters posted all over town, excitedly announcing: _"LIVERPOOL'S OWN: 'The Hellcats'!"_ in a nauseating font John had to swear had not been used since the mid-70s. Orange 17 was a popular club in town, so there was going to be a crowd anyway, regardless of the shitty font of their posters. As he sang, he stared at the orange poster, the black-and-white headshots of them performing at Sefton in July on it, even though he was upset they had chosen the photos they did because he was caught mid-scream and looked terrible; no, he was mostly looking at Paul. In the shitty black-and-white filter his face looked older, and it made his stomach flip to look at. Not that Paul wasn't just looking older in general lately anyway. (Not that John had noticed), but his shoulders were broadening in his usual baggy shirts, and he was almost as tall as Pete, even though Pete was a miserably short fucker.

 _Christ. Stop thinking,_ his brain screamed.

 _"Yeah, you really got me now, you got me so I can't sleep at night,"_ he screamed, and tried not to think about the lyrics too hard.

"Can you try singing that with more emotion?" Stuart asked bitchily at the end of the song. "You're not selling it."

Rather than make a rude comment, John just sighed, nodded, and put the mic to his forehead, still royally pissed at Stuart for everything but trying his damnedest not to get into a fight on the day of their biggest concert to date. "Yeah, I'm just trying to save my voice for later."

"Shall we go on, then? Er, and you all know how to dress tonight?" His eyes were shooting specifically at Paul, and John wanted to punch him. "If we look like fags we're gonna be booed off the stage."

"Yeah," Paul said, and he sounded completely empty.

"Jesus, Stu," Pete said, and something bitter in John was validated.

"What?"

"They're not animals."

"I'm just saying."

"Well, you sound like an asshole, is all."

Stuart's eyes flashed, dark and angry, then broke away in a roll. "Fucking fine, can we just get through this set? Alright, starting with 'Jacob's Ladder'..."

When rehearsal ended, Paul and John walked together to his car, not really speaking. It was a furiously cloudy day, and the air was heavy with the promise of rain. Without addressing it they were in agreement to go back to Paul's house, where John had practically been living the past week after another fight with Mimi. He split his time between there and Julia's, and was happy that things with her were going well at least, especially as every other relationship in his life was falling apart. He hadn't spoken to Andie Elliot in a few days, and he had the horrible feeling that things with her had more or less come to a rut they couldn't get out of. He'd been so busy recently, she'd just sort of fallen by the wayside, and he could tell she was bored and wanted to move on. He'd invited her to the gig tonight, but who fucking knew if she'd show up or not. It was frustrating, to say the least, and this on top of his falling outs with Mimi and Stuart and the unspoken weirdness with Paul was driving him insane.

Paul put one of his CDs in the player and leaned his head back against the headrest as John started driving. He didn't look good, to be honest. There were massive bags under his eyes, his dark hair was unkempt even by Paul standards, and his cheeks were tinged red in the way suggesting sickness.

"You feeling alright?" John asked as nonchalantly as possible, maintaining careful eye contact with the road.

"Mm," he said, looking out the window. "Think I might be coming down with something."

"Oh...are you gonna be alright for tonight?"

"Yeah, of course," he assured him quickly. "I just...I've been having a hard time sleeping lately, s'all."

"Stress?"

"Nightmares," he said with a grimace. "Mostly, y'know...my mom, and stuff."

"Christ. I'm sorry, Paul."

"No, it's okay, just..." he took a measured sigh, and John could hear his voice threatening to break. Without thinking much about it, John reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezed it tight. He could feel Paul's face turn surprisedly towards his, almost in shock, then fall again. He squeezed back, and didn't say anything. He didn't need to. John parked across from his house and they sat in silence for a moment, with only the CD playing, and he finally broke away with an awkward cough and asked, "So who is this?"

"Er...Harry Nilsson, iono if you've heard him."

"No, I haven't."

"He did the Coconut song. But here, you might know this one-" and Paul skipped ahead to track 7, and the opening guitar riff was in fact very familiar.

"Oh! Yeah, this was uh, it was in that movie."

"'Midnight Cowboy.'"

"Yeah, yeah. I like this song a lot, wow."

"Harry Nilsson's amazing," Paul said quietly. "Supremely underrated. Anyway, we should probably go inside."

So they went inside, and decided against sitting in the backyard as the threat of rain seemed so imminent. They sat at his kitchen table across from each other with a deck of cards, and were playing rummy and listening to Harry Nilsson when the rain started pounding the house in sheets.

"Is the rain going to ruin the turnout tonight?" Ellen wondered from the kitchen sink, making a stew or something that actually smelled quite good.

"Maybe. But who knows. Liverpool folk aren't so easily deterred, I hope. Oh, haha, fuck you Paul. Three of a kind, my ass."

Paul stuck his tongue out at him, sweeping all the cards up triumphantly, and John could feel the hard part of his heart melting. When he'd think about it, years later, with all the bullshit surrounding him, that afternoon spent playing cards in Paul's kitchen with the rain pouring down and the room warm and cozy with his aunt making stew, 'Aerial Ballet' playing softly in the background, Paul's face glowing back at him...well, when he thought about what _home_ meant to him, what it truly meant to be at peace surrounded with love and feel your soul at rest, he thought about that afternoon, and he thought about Paul.

For a 17-year-old, it was a touch confusing. Maybe that was why he'd try to bury all that, how he could go from that happiness to dive headfirst into the bullshit of his adult life. But maybe things weren't that simple; time changed people, and distance didn't always make the soul grow fonder. But in that moment, and maybe in all the moments looking back on that, John was _home_.

"When should we head to Orange 17 to start setting up?" Paul asked, discarding a two of hearts.

"Uh, about an hour or so before we go on, I guess. We have to go to Pete's first to get amps and all that."

"Alright." Then he put a five-card run on the table, and John started cursing him again, and the happiest moment of John's life faded out, so gently he didn't even notice.

...

As they agreed upon, an hour or two before the gig started they drove back to Pete's and loaded John's car with as many amps that would fit in the boot, which was approximately one. The other two were put in Pete's car, and they all drove to Orange 17, Stuart and Pete in one car and John and Paul in the other. The rain had not ceased even slightly. Thankfully, John had thought to grab his glasses that morning, and reluctantly slid them on as they drove deeper into the city and he began to have a hard time reading signs, especially with the rain and all. Paul was grinning at him.

"How come you never wear those things?"

"These goggles?" he snorted, and looked over at Paul. Yikes. Bad idea indeed. With his glasses, Paul's face had never been clearer, and as such, had never looked better. This was not helping his whole _stop thinking about Paul_ thing, so he firmly readjusted his grip on the steering wheel and glued his eyes to the road. "Nah, I don't need them so bad."

"I don't think that's true. You're squinting all the time."

"Aye, you've caught on to that?" he laughed forcedly. "Well, yeah. I do need them. But they're ugly as shite. I've already got a lot going on with this ugly mug, don't need the goggles to make things worse."

"That's not true," Paul said, and he fucking hated the way he said it so simply, so surely. His face was burning and he could feel the kid looking at him and it was making driving truly awful. "I don't understand why you call yourself ugly, is all I mean."

John really, _really_ could not overstate how little he wanted to be having this conversation, especially as he was driving in fucking sheets of rain. He folded his mouth into a thin line and raised an eyebrow. "Er...well I suppose everyone is entitled to their own opinions, son."

"That girl Andie is bloody gorgeous and she's going out with you."

"She is indeed," he agreed flatly, looking desperately for their next turn. "Shit! I think I passed the street we needed to go down."

"So you can't really call yourself ugly if you've got a girl as pretty as her."

John, even in his moment of abject annoyance, could not help but smirk. "Aye, is she prettier than little old Dot, then?"

"Shut up," Paul whined. "I'm trying to make a point."

"I'm just giving you a hard time, Ma- oh, here we are."

He pulled into the gravel lot behind Orange 17 and parked beside Pete's already parked car. They were sitting in the front seat smoking, and waved through the window when he pulled in. John slumped back in his seat and pulled out his own cigarettes.

"You mind?" he said, lifting them up.

"I hope you're not influenced by me doing this," John said muffledly, balancing a ciggie between his lips as he struggled with the lighter. "These things are pure shite."

"Yeah, I know. They're gross, so...no, you're not a bad influence or anything."

"It sounds like you're calling me a bad influence."

"Nah, I'm not so easily influenced," he grinned. His grin was as bright as the sun, and John felt something stopping up inside him again. He whipped his glasses off suddenly, grateful for the reprieve from vision. He closed his eyes and took a long, long drag, focusing on the burning in his throat. He imagined it warming his entire body.

"Are you ready for tonight?"

" _Fuuuuck_ no," he said amidst an exhale. "But you can never be ready. You know? I just- Christ, I've been worrying about this gig for so fuckin' long now..."

"It'll be okay, I think. I feel...I sort of feel like it _has_ to be, y'know what I mean?"

"No?"

Paul sighed and looked sad. "I'm going to be gone, really soon...I just want this to be good. I need it to be good. So I can leave feeling like...I've done something good."

John felt like all the wind had been knocked out of him. He shakily brought his fingers to his lips and took a long, long drag, turning these words over in his mind. He knew _exactly_ what Paul meant, because he felt the same way. He wanted Paul's leaving to have some sort of meaning. If this wasn't good then...Paul was just _gone_. Not that Paul wasn't going to be gone either way, but it feeling cinemtatic made it feel better, in some strange way. And then, because the words were there anyway, he spoke a question that had sat in the back of his mind all summer, one he was afraid to ask because there was a part of him that already knew the answer.

"You're not coming back next summer, are you?"

Paul's eyes shined with a dull mist that seemed to reflect the torrential downpour outside, but there was an air of weary calmness that had settled into newly forming lines in his face. The heaviness of his brow, the crinkles in the corners in his eyes, the sad quirk of his lips: they all told John the same thing.

"No. I'm not."

John opened his mouth and then immediately closed it. Paul was not coming back next summer, and he was not coming back for any of the summers after that. This was an important lesson John learned, and one he carried with him into adulthood the same way he carried that small barely-burning torch for Paul. The longevity of relationships were in no way relational to their depth; no matter how deeply he cared for Paul in those few weeks of summer, there was nothing he could have done to make it last. Just as their lives were meant to intersect that summer, so were they forced to part ways again. There was nothing he could do to stop this, and as he realized it there, sitting in the car smoking his cigarette, the happiness he'd felt that afternoon was instantly dwarfed by the greatest sense of powerlessness and hopelessness he'd ever experienced. Paul had not just brought him to Earth; he'd broken both his kneecaps, forced him to the ground and made him _feel_ mortality. He could feel the weight of this cyclical destiny weighing down on him: finish school, get married, have some babies, work, die. Paul was going home to London, and he would do the same thing. There was no rebellion. It was _destiny_.

Maybe this was dramatic. He was only 17 years old, anyroad. But all he wanted to do in that moment was run for his fucking life.

...

"We hope you will enjoy the show."

John adjusted the strap of his guitar, grinning and waggling his eyebrows into the audience. He heard some giggles, and his gaze snagged on that of a blonde girl in the front row. She looked like Brigitte Bardot. He winked at her, and in the hazy orange lights of the club, could almost swear he saw her blush. The tuneless chatter of conversations and clinking glasses carried up to the dingy stage in waves, and John fancied himself drowning beneath them. He tapped the mic, and looked over to Stuart on his right, who was fiddling with amp knobs, Paul to his right, standing still and prim in John's flannel, and Pete, mohawk particularly greased up today and seemingly ready. He looked over at Stuart again and nodded, and the boy strummed downwards.

Feedback droned in his ears as shards of the opening riff to 'Silver Rocket' hung in the air, and John held his breath. This was it. He mouthed _one, two, three,_ and Pete hit the downbeat like a freight train and they were off.

 _"Snake in it, jack into the wall, TV amp on fire blowing in the hall, gun your sled, close your peeping toms, turbo organizer cranking on the knob,"_ John shouted breathlessly, too close to the mic and spitting through an already sore throat, but was impressed he'd remembered the abject nonsense of the lyrics. Squinting, he could see some people in the back sitting at the bar put their drinks down and turn to the stages, their faces a washed-out orange mass of indifference. He tugged on the mic stand and sang with urgency, sang all the way to the back of the bar and imagined his splitting voice filling the entire room. The eyes of every girl in the front row followed his movements as he frenetically tugged the mic around the stage. There was this terrifying voice in the back of his head that was telling him this was the last time anyone would pay attention to him like this, and that he needed to stretch these moments out like chewed gum. _"Yeah you got it...you got the silver rocket,"_ he half-screamed, and the band devolved into feedback and Pete's schizophrenic beating. John stepped back from the end of the stage and lowered his head, then turned to stare openly at Paul. His lips were parted, eyebrows drawn together in concentration as he glided up and down the strings, perfect in his effortless way. For once, there was not that underbite of jealousy in seeing Paul's innate talent. A strange sense of respect and care for the boy washed over him, and he accepted it. He smiled at Paul, not giving a flying fuck over who saw it, and he smiled back.

Next on the set was 'Jacob's Ladder,' beginning with the swirling bassline Paul wrote, and John had to close his eyes again. On the stage, feeling warmed from the inside by bright fluoroscent orange lights, he could feel Paul's bass in his bones, felt it as a tether to the ground. His center as he spun away. _You can't leave me,_ he thought, again and again until he had to open his mouth to sing and all he could do was pour that pain out into his words, cracking and breaking as he strained his voice to the limit.

When the song ended, Stuart walked quickly over to him and whispered in his ear, "Are you okay?"

"Grand, Stu."

Stuart, hair greased up off his forehead, ridiculously out-of-place in a suit and yet better-looking than every last person in the bar, was staring at him with flying saucer eyes and a positively glum pout. For the first time in quite some time, maybe months, John saw the little 11-year-old kid he'd befriended in grade school looking back out of his friend's eyes, a look he'd thought long gone. With nothing else to say John wrapped his arms around the other boy and pulled him into a slightly awkward hug, smiling and then shooing him back to his side of the stage.

Paul was staring at him from the oppposite end of the stage with an equally glum look. He tore his eyes away and instead looked down again at that beautiful blonde, the Bardot impersonator, who was seemingly unaffected by his verbal vomit all over the last song. She had a bright smile, one that made him feel woozy. When he looked down at her he felt destiny.

"This next song is for the lovely lady in the front row here," he said coolly, and mouthed ' _Kinks_ ' at Stuart, who was only happy to oblige with the opening strums, repeating a few times before Pete clued in and started bagging away on the drums, joined only a split-second later by Paul.

 _"Girl, you really got me now, you got me so I don't know what I'm doin',"_ he sang with a laid-back air, unhooking the mic from the stand and standing crooked with it, exaggeratedly jabbing his foot on the hits and throwing his hip out to earn more giggles and attention from Bardot and her gaggle of friends. But even with that- even with all that!- it was like the only thing his brain could echolocate on was Paul's closeness to him, as the boy wobbled closer and closer to him on the tiny stage until he was leaning on his back and really overdoing the showmanship, practically screaming lyrics again. His entire back was against Paul's, and the _closeness_ was driving him crazy, feeling the boy's warmth and slightly damp back and exhilarated laughs as John hammed the words. His brain was momentarily electrified, and Bardot completely vanished from his sight, replaced only by Paul, who seemed to be the only person in the entire room. Then there were the closing jabs of Stuart's guitar, and the moment was over. He walked quickly to the other side of the stage and didn't dare to look back at the boy. He kept his gaze trained on Stuart, who had an uncharacteristic smile splitting his face, and brought John in for another hug. They laughed, both a little sweaty, and Stuart was whispering something about the blonde bird that he just nodded dumbly about.

"Just for you, mate, we'll do that Beatles number now," Stuart said, clapping him on the back and pushing him back into the middle of the stage. John gestured to the other boys and tried not to linger on Paul, who looked like he'd just sprinted a mile, face flushed and a dazed smile hanging on his face as he wiped sweat off his brow. There was something dark and flashing in his eyes when they caught John's, some deeper thought lurking behind hazel, and John turned back to the audience and looked for Bardot. When she smiled up at him, it was clear and cutting, like the way Andie looked at him. He raised his fist up and stuck out the thumb and pinkie, wagging it by his ear and winking at her. She laughed and blushed and hid her mouth behind her hand, jostling her girlfriends for support. Then the tell-tale beat of Pete's cymbals began again, and he snapped the mic back to his face.

 _"When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide, where I stop and I go for a ride, til I get to the bottom and I see you again,"_ John screamed, bending over and hanging his head over the mic. The crowd went crazy, and he suddenly had half a mind to jump into the audience. Of course the only Beatles song Stuart would even fathom covering was the Charlie Manson one, but he was right in that the audience loved it. The people were losing their goddamn minds over it, and he was only happy to oblige in channeling that energy back at them. This felt like the complete opposite of the shit show at Sefton Park, where all parties involved were half-dead and devoid of excitment; all four of them on that stage were having the time of their life, playing with heart and soul and a lot of sweat.

Feeling cheeky, he turned to Paul, and sang to him, " _Do you, don't you want me to love you?"_ Paul immediately tripped on the strings and starting shaking his head violently at John, lips pressed in a thin line, which only encouraged him more, and he raised his arm to point and sing brashly, _"Well, you may be a lover but you ain't no dancer."_ He could hear Stuart laughing from the other side of the stage, but it was very, very evident Paul did not find it funny in the slightest. Why, he didn't know, but John let off and started pointing at other people as he sang, mostly Bardot.

After the show was over a sweaty and exhausting and exhilarating hour later, John jumped off the stage into the front row, to the yelps of the young women populating it. He wasted no time in finding the blonde girl, standing to the side of the stage talking to some of her friends. She saw him approaching and smiled coyly at the girl next to her, then started brushing her hair back over her shoulders. He sidled up to them, grinning and tossing some 'hello there's to the gaggle surrounding Bardot. They seemed to get the message and quickly dispersed, almost in a mechanical manner, and then it was just him and her leaning up against the wooden siding of the stage.

"Hello," he said, barely containing a smile. "You might have caught me staring at you a few times, I think. I just wanted to clarify that I'm a little soft between the ears and that I've gotta squint real bad to see anything." The girl laughed, a laugh that seemed free from all inhibitions of adherence to social cues and dating rules and all that shite but then she clamped her hand to her mouth, and he wasn't so sure. "Also, I may have thought you were Brigitte Bardot."

"I was afraid you might have been staring at the girl beside me," she began, and she had a soft, placating voice. He leaned in closer under the pretense of hearing her better in the noisy bar, but he really just wanted to be closer.

"Those bats? No way." He smiled gently, then extended his hand. "I'm John, by the way."

"Cynthia," Cynthia said, and took his hand in hers. She had small, neat hands, with polished fingernails. She was wearing a lilac-colored shift dress that clung to Jessica Rabbit-esque curves in a way he was very much trying not to gape at, and was about as tall as Paul _(_ _stop thinking about Paul, dear god)_ in black mary-janes. She smiled up at him in that soft, knowing way, and again this promise of _destiny_ hit him as he smiled back at her. "I suppose you don't have a landline, John?"

"Oh my! Well, for Bardot, I do," he gasped. "You don't have any paper on you, do ya Cynthia?"

She reached into a little black purse and pulled out a notebook and pen, and he dutifully scribbled his phone number in it, as well as a caricature of a boy with massive, exploding heart eyes. Cynthia peered over his shoulder as he drew and started laughing again, swatting at his arm. "You're daft, aren't you?"

"Well, in my defense, I did warn you about that."

"I can't be bringing home a boy who's _daft_."

He fake-gasped again. "Who said anything about taking me home?" He threw his hand to his forehead, pretending to faint. "You can't just have your way with me like that!"

"I never said I wanted to 'have my way with you yet'..."

"In due time, Cyn," he said, and winked, and relished as she blushed profusely _(don't even_ think _about how much that reminds you of Paul)._

"You're quite the character, John," she said.

"Does that mean you'll be calling me? I do hope that's what it means."

"In due time," she said coyly, then turned around as she began walking away and blew him a kiss. He caught it to his chest, and sighed.

"You're breaking me heart, Cynthia!"

She laughed again before disappearing into the crowd, and for a moment John's brain was flush and drunk with the idea that this girl was absolutely _the one_. Then it fell back into the fold, and he remembered, yes, Paul, have to go find Paul before he leaves.

After some running around the bar, he finally found Paul in the back, loading his bass up by the door as though he were about to leave.

"Paul!" he shouted excitedly. "I've met the woman of my dreams."

"Grand," Paul said, and it sounded hollow. He recoiled in surprise.

"What are you on about? This is-"

"Don't fucking sing at me like that," Paul said, and his words carried a weight maybe unknown to even the boy himself at the time, unknown at least how John would internalize those words for so long, carry them with him along with all the other shite. He stepped back a little bit, and felt the blood rushing from his head.

"What..."

"You know what I'm talking about," he continued, and there was a deeper anger in his tone that John hadn't initially detected, but now it was all he could hear. Standing in that dark hallway beside the doorway, Paul was whispering, but he might as well have been screaming. "Don't make me spell it out for you. We both know what I'm fucking talking about, John."

Suddenly, every interaction he'd had with Paul in the past two months came crashing down upon him: every touch of the arm, stolen glance, night spent laying under the stars in his backyard. They grew into a horrible monster, a terrible perversion of every smile Paul had given him, all twisted up and poisoned into this lumbering mass of fear and guilt and shame that pressed down, down, down on his chest as Paul's words played on repeat, working their way into the grooves of his brain like a record that wouldn't quit playing. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to rationalize any of it. _He wasn't like that...Paul wasn't like that..._

"I have to go home and pack," Paul said, swinging the bass over his shoulder. "My dad called and I'm going home early."

John felt like he was going to throw up. "Can I see you- tomorrow, are you leaving tomorrow?"

Paul shook his head, his eyes rimmed with red. John wanted, _needed_ to touch him, needed to try and understand what Paul was saying, but this black ugly mass was churning and building inside and he could barely breathe.

"I'm leaving tomorrow, but...I think it's best if we don't see each other," he mumbled, and swallowed with some obvious effort. "I'm sorry, John, I am."

"I don't understand-"

"Don't say that!" he suddenly cried. "Please, John, please don't."

" _Paul_ -"

"I have to go, alright, I'm sorry, I have to go."

Then he was pushing the door open, and walking out of John's life. He stood there dumbfounded for a moment, everything whirling in his mind, something trying to compute that just wouldn't click. He could have stood there for seconds or hours; stood staring at the door, waiting for Paul to walk back in.

But he didn't.

And so, after some time, John swallowed his tears and walked back on to the stage and into the warmth and cheer of the bar, where Stuart took his arm and put a drink in his hand and told him to smile, told him to celebrate, and John took a swig, and felt himself falling, felt something inside him dying; maybe falling asleep, maybe a coma, but something that would not wake up for a very, very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates should be coming soon... i apologize in advance for long periods between chapters. i've got a busy schedule at the moment. but just know, at NO point am i giving up on this story until i finish it. i am so freaking invested in this story it's ridiculous. i think if i don't finish it i might be physically ailed? hard to know yet.


	6. Hello, Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is an interlude of sorts between 1991 and 2003, taking place in the may of 1994. fair warning, it's a bit of a doozy.

_May 1994_

John woke up with the unmistakable feeling that it was going to be a shitty day.

It had started with a horrible dream, the same one he'd been having every night for a week now. In his dreams, he was driving the car Julia had bought him. Julia was in the passenger seat, and her mouth was moving; she was trying to tell him something, something he knew was important, but he could never quite clearly make out what she was saying, there was just this horrible empty whistling coming out of her mouth, like the sounds of cars whizzing past on the freeway. Then the car would jerk to a stop, and he would fly through the window, but he never fell to the pavement; he just kept falling, falling, falling through a neverending pit with the pavement so close to reaching up and grabbing him but never making contact, and then he would awaken with a start as he felt his mortal body hit the bed. Then, as it had happened most mornings, Cynthia would swat at him and mutter something about it being four in the morning and to go back to bed, and he would lay there for the next four hours, unsleeping with eyes wide shut.

But as it had happened this morning, he had not even attempted to try and fall asleep again. He blearily rolled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchenette in just pants and an undershirt, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he started the drip coffee. It was then that he remembered it was a Saturday, and he had half a mind to hit himself over the head. He didn't even have to be awake until _at least_ 10, and here he was at 4am, brewing a pot of coffee. But now he felt more awake than asleep, and could only sigh as he sat down at the little card table beneath the window.

As he waited for his coffee, he placed his warm cheek against the glass pane, damp and cold from the night. There was a steady blueness tinging the sky that he watched intently, the promise of another day that may have onced given him the sense of _hope_ or _possibility_ or some other shite like that but now just made him want to down a bottle of NyQuil and try to get some damn sleep. Perhaps the coffee was actually a bad idea. Oh, well. He'd had worse days.

After fixing himself an overlarge mug of coffee with lots of sugar he sat back down at the little table with an old music magazine and kicked his feet up. He made a poor effort of trying to decipher anything on the first few pages before grumbling and grabbing his reading glasses, abandoned on the table from the previous morning. He flipped around randomly and found an article about Nirvana, which he read with a sense of glum dejection. Cobain had died not even a month ago; even though it wasn't very properly _British_ of him, John had been a pretty big fan of the band, although he thought all the knockoff grunge shite that had settled in their wake deserved to stay on the wrong side of the Atlantic. There was something raw and unknown and powerful about their music that captivated him, made the world seem impossibly large and not confined by this tiny hamster wheel of home and work he rolled around in. The apartment was in no way helping this feeling; it had been a good deal, and was close to the institute where Cynthia was finishing school and John's internship, but it was so fucking _tiny_ that he felt like he was developing some sort of claustrophobia. There wasn't much they could do about it though; no way in hell either of their parents were giving them any monetary help until they got married and stopped "living in sin" as Mimi so bitingly put it.

It wasn't like he _wasn't_ going to propose to Cynthia, anyroad. It was just a matter of when. And with what money. She was still in school, for chrissakes, now wasn't the time to get married. Even though _she_ definitely thought differently; he wasn't oblivious to her leaving wedding magazines all over the apartment, or casually mentioning her friend such-and-such from school who had just gotten engaged. So it just remained this strange stalemate where neither party particularly acknowledged what they knew the other wanted, and skirted around the subject with awkward uptightness. In his mind, if Cynthia wanted to get married, she could bleeding well go buy the ring herself.

But maybe that wasn't fair. He downed the rest of his coffee in one go, and stared back out the window. Cynthia was a lovely girl, and _nice_ ; she was the nicest girl he'd ever met, genuinely kind, which was not so easy to find, and they had been together for so long now that it was just _logical_ that they should get married. Even though there was still that nasty, untamed part of John that didn't want to be fucking logical, that wanted to kick logic in the gut and turn and run. But as depressing as it seemed, he couldn't afford to think like that anymore. There was rent, and utilities, and groceries, car payments and gas...and soon enough, a big ol' diamond ring, a wedding, and then probably a goddamn baby.

He buried his face in his hands. It was much too early to be thinking about this.

And so, unceremoniously, he retreated to the bedroom, where he crawled back into bed and closed his eyes and willed himself to fall back asleep (even as he was wired on coffee), just to have some momentary reprieve from his insufferable inner monologue. Cynthia found his hand beneath the sheets and grasped loosely at it; the last thought he had before slipping away was, _yes, as long as the days are like this, I think we can make it._

He woke up what felt like 10 minutes later with Cynthia sitting beside him, her cold hand cupping his chin. He blinked and looked up sleepily, eyes narrowed as he tried to read the expression on her face.

"We're out of coffee," she whispered. "Will you go to the store to get some more? I have to leave at 8:30 for that interview."

"Fuck. I forgot you had that today."

"So I have to get ready." She glanced over at the clock. "It's already 7:45. Can you go really quickly?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck. Alright, gimme a second."

He rolled out of bed for the second time that morning and struggled around the bedroom, searching half-blindly for his jeans, jumping into them in two seconds flat. He stepped into trainers and almost fell into the wall, dramatically leaning against Cynthia for support. She laughed and pushed him aside, pulling her robe closer. He pulled her in for a quick kiss goodbye before heading out the door, then immediately turned around to grab his sweatshirt and keys from the card table.

It was brisk outside, but not too terribly bad for an early morning in late May. His sweatshirt (navy blue, advertising Cyn's school) was more than enough to protect from the temperate chill that blew along the empty sidewalk. Liverpool felt eerily quiet that morning, as though everyone else got to stay in bed and spend their Saturday in peace. Everyone but him, apparently. The isolation was kind to him, though; he was only a few weeks into this internship and already he was feeling suffocated by the constant closeness with people. Although he supposed it's what he should have expected, going into media relations and whatnot. It wasn't as though he utterly _despised_ working with people like that, and he thought he was pretty good at it so far, but it was nice to have these moments of quiet. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned his face up to the frigid blue sky, and a strange grin overtook his face. Perhaps his early morning anxieties would go on unfounded, and this day would prove to be something different.

One of the only perks of the shoebox apartment was its location, of course, and this included its proximity to a lovely little grocer's just a block away that carried all the stock food items they needed. Or at least what they could afford with whatever scraps were left over after student loan checks and rent. Since moving in together, he and Cyn had both grown undeniably _thin_ ; even now, as John passed the darkened windows before the grocer's, he saw the shadowy ghost of a rail-thin visage, a waning face with an absent look, and was briefly spooked, thinking it was someone else for a second before realizing with a guttural jerk that it was _him_. He shuttered his eyes down and pulled open the door to Harry's Grocery.

The eponymous Harry was an elusive figure who may not have even existed; the only people ever working that John saw were a grouchy arse named Mark and his trainee, the most insufferable cunt on the bloody planet, Greg Wheeling, who was under the impression that John and Cyn were some sort of foster parents to him. A cursory glance around the small store did not reveal Greg, and John sighed somewhat relievedly and carried on to the dry goods to pick up another bag of their favorite coffee, and maybe some sort of chocolate thing for Cyn. As he stood in the aisle trying to find where their coffee had been reshelved, he could not help but overhear the rather loud blathering of the patrons a few aisles in front of him. It was a man and a woman with their backs to him, jabbering at none other than Greg. John groaned and tried to block out the conversation, but there was something so strangely compelling about the voices that he couldn't not listen.

"I just asked- my nephew is only in town for the weekend, you know, he doesn't-"

"I just don't understand," John heard Greg say, in his trademark nauseating drawl that made it sound like he'd been hit over the head a few times. "You know we don't have- what was it?"

"Sashimi."

"Yeah...uh, we don't have sesame."

" _Sashimi_."

"Yeah."

John, bemused that these poor saps from out of town had to deal with the completely bumbling prick that was Greg, abandoned all pretenses of appraising the different coffee bags and instead peeked his head over the shelves as discreetly as he could manage and tried to get a glimpse at these people. The woman had long dark hair, swishing from side to side as she shook her head at Greg. The man beside her- her nephew, apparently- kept his head down and appeared to be chewing his fingernails. Then he watched him break away, and say loudly, "It's alright, Ellen, it's clear these people don't need the trouble of our business."

John froze. _That voice_...there was something so goddamn familiar about it, and what was the name he had said? Ellen? Something was kicking at the synapses in John's brain, and he desperately tried to remember where he had heard that voice before. A song, a dream, another lifetime; there was some quality in it he could swear he'd heard a million times before. Then the man turned to look over the shelves towards John, and he felt his heart stop.

Paul.

Oh, _fuck_.

However smooth he may have wanted to seem, it was immediately obvious that Paul had recognized him, if his eyebrows shooting halfway up his forehead was any indication of that, and he was sure his face had given away the same tell-tale reaction. He swallowed and looked down for a second, trying to decide whether to run or hide, when Ellen called out, "JOHN LENNON?! Is that you?"

He felt his chest tighten, and gave a horrible approximation of a smile that he was sure made him look constipated. He followed this with a weak wave of the hand, and walked with a foggy head over to where they stood. Ellen immediately pulled him into a hug, and even though he was actually quite afraid that he might throw up on her feet, it was really quite nice to see her again. He'd always liked Paul's aunt, especially all the summer days spent in her backyard drinking, and of course the afternoon they'd spent in her kitchen playing cards as she made soup. This memory, while pleasant, subsequently reminded him that that particular day was the last time he'd ever seen Paul; specifically a few hours after that, when Paul had run out the backdoor at Orange 17 on the verge of tears and _very, very_ angry at John, for something he'd never figured out.

And now they were standing here, in his grocery, and expected to act like this wasn't the most awkward conversation of all time.

"Hi, Ellen," he said, pulling out of her arms. "Hullo, Paul.'

"John," Paul acknowledged gruffly, and John felt something awful tug in his lower stomach.

"It's so good to see you!" Ellen exclaimed. "It's been, what- two years?"

"Almost three years," Paul corrected her, and John wanted to snip back, _so you've been keeping track, huh?_ but of course he didn't, because it was quite plain to see that Paul was still bloody angry at him for fuck knows what and that at this point, chummy joking around like that was not really the M.O.

"Yeah, it's been awhile," he said, which felt like the grossest understatement of all time. The truth was that he'd been playing out this _exact_ meeting in his head just about every day since that horrible night almost three years ago, and now that it was happening in real life he still could not shake the feeling that he was moving through a lucid dream. Although, he noted with a touch of bitterness, if this was really a dream, Paul would probably be acting nicer. "So what brings you back to _Liddypool_ , Paul?"

Something cruel played upon Paul's face, and it unsettled John, because it made him look so much _not like him_. Not that he looked much at all like he had three years ago, truthfully; puberty had seemingly hit Paul like a freight train. The skinny, twerpy midget with the chubby face and awful haircut that John had known so well was now 17, if his bad mental math was to be trusted. The same age as he had been when he'd met Paul, which was a strange and terrifying thought to think. Paul looked older than that, though; he looked just about as old as John did now at 20, and _Christ_ if John wasn't trying his hardest not to gawp at him. He'd looked like a bloody fucking _angel_. He'd grown into all the strangely sized features of his pre-adolescent face, especially his ears; it was as thought the master plan for his face had finally been revealed to him, and all his oddities as a 14-year-old suddenly made sense, and he was face-to-face with just about the most attractive person he'd ever seen in real life (male, of course...er, maybe). He still had the same doe eyes, impossibly large and blinking slowly and heavy with eyelashes, and John had a hard time looking at them without feeling weak in the knees. His mouth parted, tongue darting out to wet plush lips, and John felt his head spin as he tried very hard not to think about how those lips looked. He tried to look at something else, but after so long only existing in the fields of memory and imagination to have the _real, physical_ Paul standing mere feet away from him was nearly driving him insane. His warmth, his presence were fucking _screaming_ at John for attention, and it was only then that he dumbly realized that Ellen had been asking him something.

"Oh, um, what do I do?" he repeated sheepishly. "Er...I have this internship type thing at a company near here at the moment, doing media and, er, public relations."

Paul and Ellen both sported the same surprised and mildly disapproving look. "That's not what I would have expected," she said, with genuine dejectment. "What happened to your band? Why'd you take a job like that?"

"Money," he said flatly, hoping he wouldn't have to elaborate any further, but with an awkward laugh and still just the same blank look from both McCartney's he grimaced and went on. "Well, my company just works with, ern, clients in public relations type stuff and press and whatnot...it's, er, it's alright, and y'know, I'm making enough money to keep the lights on." He swallowed, and gestured with his hands. "The band sorta, uh, dissipated after we all went back to school." He stole a glance at Paul, who looked drawn and possibly remorseful, though it was hard to tell behind the stoney facade he was putting up. "Especially without you," he mumbled lamely.

"I understand about money, John, but I just thought you were always so _devoted_ to music."

He nodded, but felt annoyed by such a pointless comment. It didn't matter how _devoted_ you were to anything; at the end of the day, devotion wasn't going to keep you warm at night. He was sick of people treating him like he was a sellout or some shite because he wasn't prepared to _suffer_ for his craft. It was especially easy for those in more comfortable stations in life to look down on the poor, struggling artists and see that somehow as righteous or pure. None of those punters would give up nights in their California king sized beds over artistic integrity; so what if he wanted a comfortable life?

He didn't say any of this, of course. He just kept nodding with a tight smile and gave her a "well-what-can-you-do" shrug.

"Well, anyway, how have you been?" he said, desperate to change the subject.

"Oh! Well, we've been good...Paulie here's just back for the weekend. He's graduating school in a month, y'know, so he wanted to come visit."

It didn't appear that Paulie had a whole lot to say about this, at least not to John anyway. He maintained his stoic performance of indifference and kept staring at a space three inches beside John's face. He accepted this as a challenge.

"Where are you heading to school then, Paulie?" John said, cocking his head.

Paul's eyes darted over to meet his briefly; there was something furious and burning in them, but then they slipped away as he was clearly swallowing down some rage to put up some fascimile of "Nice Paulie." He clenched and unclenched his jaw (Christ, even his _jaw_ had hit puberty), and plastered on the fakest, meanest smile he'd ever seen on a face that so poorly suited it, and opened his mouth as though to speak before suddenly being cut off by his aunt.

"Hey, listen you two," she said quickly, glancing at her wristwatch. "I have to go back to the house right now- why don't you take some time to yourselves to catch up? Paul? You can just meet me back at the house this afternoon, I have just got to head back right now to help Kurt with the roof. 'S that sound good? Alright, see you soon, love," and she leaned up to kiss a blustered Paul on the side of the head, slinging her bag over her shoulder and giving a final squeeze to John's arm. Paul's mouth just sort of blubbered as his aunt abandoned him in the grocery store. And so, for the first time in nearly three years, they were alone together.

"I can't believe she just left me like that," Paul said, in shock. He stood rigidly straight, limbs long and awkwardly hanging off his frame. John imagined he'd grown so quickly that he was still quite unsure what to do with them; his uneasy stance especially gave him the appearance of a baby giraffe who was still clumsy on mile-long legs. For the first time, he felt like he was seeing _his Paul,_ or at least the Paul he remembered from all those summers ago, the Paul who was painfully shy and wickedly funny and goofy and kind-hearted. Oh, God, Paul was looking at him, he needed to stop thinking things like that.

"Hey," John suddenly said, lowering his voice a bit. "You don't have to stay."

"I know," Paul shot back, but then something in his face immediately softened. They stood there in a strange pause of silence for a few moments, shuffling their feet awkwardly in the grocery aisle, before John could finally handle no more, cleared his throat, and suggested they take a walk around the block. Paul, to his benefit, did not outwardly refuse; he sort of shrugged his shoulders, which was just about as close to a 'of course!' that John realized he could expect. And so they walked out together, not buying anything (it would be hours later before John remembered the reason he was supposed to go to the grocery in the first place, which was to get Cynthia's coffee, but by then it was a bit too late anyway).

The sun warmed the air tangentially more than it had earlier in the morning, and they stepped out together on to the sidewalk with their backs to the ill wind that blew leaves and pollen and other assortments around them. They didn't speak for awhile; they just walked, with John in a state of utter disbelief as he realized he was struggling to match Paul's long strides. Finally he broke the silence, spitting, "When did you get so fucking tall?"

Paul didn't say anything for a moment, and he looked over at him expectantly. A grin was residing in the lines of the little twat's face, and John had half the mind to swat at him.

"When did you get _old_?" Paul taunted.

"Were you always this annoying?" John groaned, but wasn't so sure Paul took it as a joke, going quiet again. After a while, crossing a busier intersection, he repeated his initial question. Paul rolled his eyes, going to roll up the sleeves of his sweater. He instantly noticed the thick dark hair covering his forearms, uncomfortably masculine in relation to his memory of Paul being quite girl-like, and he felt something strange tugging at his lower stomach again, and focused his gaze on the cars rushing past them.

"I got tall two summers ago," Paul said gruffly, as though each word was physically paining him.

"Do you drink coffee, Paul?" John suddenly asked, stopping them in the middle of the street.

"Uh...yeah. Yes, I guess."

"Alright, we're going in right here," he nodded certainly, and pointed up to where they had stopped, which was a squat and unassuming cafe with a big sign over the door reading 'CHUCK'S.' Paul didn't look too pleased, but followed in after John regardless. They took a small table by the window, sitting opposite from each other. After John had gotten himself his second cup of the day and some fruity latte for Paul, they settled into the space wordlessly, and stared at each other for a long time.

He wasn't sure what to make of Paul anymore; when they were younger, it had never been _easy_ to read Paul, but he felt like he always knew what to say to diffuse the moment or to make the boy laugh. Now he was moving blindly, treading the deep end with no sense of how to talk to him. Time had seemed to drive this unavoidable wedge between them, especially under the heavy shadow of their last meeting, which was still to be unexplained in what had made Paul so emotionally wrecked, and what was clearly still plaguing him. He sipped his latte quietly, massive eyes floating to stare out the window on to the street. John watched him with no reservations, and he knew that Paul knew he was watching him. He gulped nervously after a second, and met John's gaze again.

"I missed you," John said, softly. "I wish you would have given me your telephone number, at least."

Paul made some sort of shrug, eyes falling back down to the table again as he clutched his coffee cup with both hands. After a considerable amount of time, he said, almost so quietly he didn't hear it at first, "I missed you, too."

"Why didn't you-"

"It's complicated, John," he mumbled, and played anxiously with his fingers against the table. "It wasn't so easy like that and I was...I _am_...upset, I guess." Before John could interject he shook his head and added, "My _mom_ , y'know, it was so recent to then too and I was sensitive, I was vulnerable...so it was just a confusing time, it wasn't a good time."

That genuinely left him at a loss for words. He gulped down a lot of coffee and tried to process all that had just been said, mostly replaying that bit about him _still being upset_. He must have been blubbering a bit, because Paul snorted and tilted his head at him.

"Don't lose your head," he said, and he swore he could detect a hint of bitterness in his tone.

"The last day I saw you," he began, feeling an onslaught of emotions rising in his throat he thought he'd left behind when he got a job, got an apartment, got Cynthia. These horrendous teenage emotions were choking him within the _hour_ of seeing Paul again. "That last day, the gig at Orange 17, you left early, you went back to London and you told me you didn't want to see me again and you were so fucking _angry_ at me and I've spent- I've spent so long trying to figure out what I did wrong, I've been going crazy trying to think what I did wrong, I-"

"John," he stopped him, and placed his hand on the table with a withering look. "It's fine."

"No, it's not," he shook his head. "We were- I mean, _Paul_ , I know, I know we didn't know each other that long, but-" he faltered, and looked up to him for some sort of validation, some small sign that he wasn't alone in this maddening conversation. "You were vulnerable, but I thought we...I thought we were close, I don't know."

"We were."

"And then you-"

"I was leaving, John, from the very beginning you knew that I had to leave."

"You left early."

"I had to!"

"That was a lie. I know you're lying, you're sitting here right now, lying, you left because of me."

"Fine! Is that what you need to hear? That I fucking left because of _you_?" he said, rage barely contained. "Because I did, John. Does that help your ego at all? Does that make you feel like I _care_ about you?"

" _Christ_ ," he said, and it came almost as a bark, completely breathless. He was dimly aware that they were causing a scene; in his periphery he could spot the glances of a few rubbernecks in the cafe, but he couldn't have been fucking arsed in that moment to stop. Every lonesome night, every bitten back sob, every self-pitying drinking session from the past three years was rising like bile in is throat, swelling on his tongue and clouding his thoughts. He felt confused, and small, powerless in the _anger_ of the boy he'd spent so long obsessing over. "I don't-"

"Are you going to tell me you don't know what you did wrong?" he said, eyes wavering, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Well... _yes_."

He hardened his mouth into a thin line, leaning back in his chair for a moment with his eyes closed, then said, "I'm surprised you haven't called Stu here yet to come and make fun of me." John, lost for any idea of what that meant, just stared, and Paul groaned and lifted a hand to his forehead. "Don't act stupid," he muttered. "It doesn't work on you."

"When did you turn into a fucking drama queen?" he sputtered back, almost laughing from the horrid stupidity of it all. "And why the fuck are you mentioning Stuart for? I haven't- I mean, I haven't talked to him in _years_ , mate, and I bloody well know that _you_ know he and I were not even on the best terms when you left. So that's _bullshit_ , Paul." He slammed the table with his open palm, and imitated a buzzing noise. " _Err_. Try again. Get a better reason to hate me."

Something faltered in Paul's face, and he could sense the mask of anger breaking, confusion and desperation replacing it. His eyes grew wide again, and he gulped. He opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it. Then he shook his head.

"I hate you because you used me," he said softly, and John felt like he'd been stabbed in the chest.

"W-what?" he said, struck with disbelief. " _Used_ you?"

"You used me to make yourself seem cooler, you used me to get girls, you- and I don't care what you say, Stuart did it too- you made fun of me because I was just a kid and you thought you could mess around with me...make me think..." His eyes were flying saucers, brimming with tears and unfocused. "...make me think there was something between us."

"There was."

" _John_ -"

"What do you fucking mean, 'used you', you were my best mate! I don't- Christ, Paul, I mean." He stopped, feeling himself reaching some unknowable depth of self-destruction with every word they spoke. "Alright, listen, I know we didn't know each other that long, I know, but I thought we were really good, and I've _missed_ you, and I just feel like you're misremembering some of what happened."

"You're trying to fucking gaslight me! You cunt, you can't fucking gaslight me!"

"Stuart and I never made fun of you!" he burst out. "Maybe Stuart but I never gave a flying _fuck_ what he thought of you, you idiot, _I_ liked you and that was all that fucking mattered."

"That day," Paul began, almost identical to what John had said earlier, and he could sense this parallel history that they both put so much importance on, although it was beginning to become very clear to him that they had completely different interpretations of what had happened. "The last day. The Orange 17 gig. The last song was 'Helter Skelter', and you sang and pointed at me and laughed at me," he spoke through gritted teeth. "Or do you not remember?"

The memory of these specific actions slowly relayed themselves back to John, and he turned them over in his mind. He'd thought his memory of the Orange 17 gig had been unassailable, raised to Everest-like proportions in obsessing over the last time he'd seen Paul, but now he was no longer so sure. He remembered 'Helter Skelter', because it was the song he remembered singing to Cynthia. She'd talked about it after the fact as the moment she'd felt the sense she could fall head over heels for him, and so that particular song had become attached to her in his mind. Now, he questioned the validity of his entire memory. He'd sang to Cynthia, but now he realized with a sickening twinge that he'd had the balls to sing to Paul too.

It was then that it suddenly and horrifyingly became known to John that Paul had interpreted his clumsy teenaged flirting as _bullying_.

Which meant he was incredibly and extremely fucked.

Clearly he wanted- no, _needed_ \- to make it very very obviously known that he had not been fucking with Paul when he'd sang to him about wanting to be his lover, but of course, were he to make this known, he'd have to admit to himself and (even worse) to Paul that he had ever had those perverted wishes, however teenage and hormonal they had been, which overall was probably a fate worse than death, but Christ, Paul now _hated_ him because he had thought he was making fun of him, had thought Stuart was in on it...

He blinked back something warm rising in his eyes, and clasped his hands together firmly. He leveled his gaze at Paul, and tried to speak as plainly as he could manage.

"I remember that," he said cautiously. "But I was not making fun of you."

"So what, then?" Paul bit back, his voice betraying how hurt he was. "Just wanted to give Stu a good laugh? Maybe make the blonde girl in the front row jealous? 'The girl of your dreams'?"

John felt a kick in the gut, genuinely upset to hear Paul speaking about Cynthia that way, but stamped it down. "No," he said, very carefully. There was so much he needed to say that had to go unsaid, he felt like a suicide bomber walking blind through a minefield. "That was not what it was."

"I don't understand, then," he said, his voice hollow. His face was pink and eyes damp, and Jesus fucking Christ if he didn't look like the most beautiful person in the entire world right then. John squeezed his eyes shut, and felt a bead of desperation and misery rip through him, and realized a second later that he was crying, embarrassed and ashamed into his hands, in the middle of a goddamn crowded cafe. It obviously took Paul aback; he couldn't blame him. It was incredibly stupid. And very, very embarrassing.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, voice hiccuping with sobs he tried to clamp back. "I never wanted to make you feel this way."

When he looked back up, Paul was staring at him like a deer in the headlights, clearly unsure of what to say, with the undeniable expression that he wanted to bolt and run. After some time of John trying and failing to compose himself, he cleared his throat and said, "Let's get out of here, yeah?"

"I-"

"S'alright, we'll take a walk around the block."

John forced a laugh, rubbing at his eyes furiously, and they left the cafe one behind the other, Paul hanging behind him at a considerable distance. The sun was still bright, and it felt cleansing, and the terrifying wave of sadness that had engulfed John receded. He suggested they walk to a nearby park, and so they did.

"Are you...okay?" Paul asked after they'd reached the next block, and it sounded as though he was trying to maintain this facade of not caring too much.

"Er. Yeah. Bit of a...well, I'm not actually quite sure what that was."

"Yeah."

"..."

"Um...John?"

They stopped on the end of the sidewalk, waiting to cross the road, and John looked at him expectantly. He was nervously tugging at his lip, a tic of his he remembered well, and was reminded once again that, _yes, this is still the same Paul_.

"What is it?"

"You really aren't talking to Stuart anymore?"

He scoffed. "No. Haha, god, no way in hell. I think he moved to London. Your town, son."

"Huh."

"...why?"

Paul just shook his head, and they hopped back on the sidewalk after narrowly dodging some cars. "I just thought you two were close, is all."

"Well...there was a time when we were. Close, that is. But, um...that summer that you were here, I was probably closer to you than I was him. Actually, I was _definitely_ closer to you than I was to him. We were fighting all the time, it just wasn't like how it had been we were kids. Our relationship was pretty shit by that point."

"I guess I never picked up on that."

"You were young."

"Oh, fuck off," he said with a smirk, swatting John, and his heart soared.

"You _were_! 14- ridiculously young! You were practically a fetus. You're just fortunate that you could play the guitar so well, otherwise I am afraid I might have kicked you to the curb." He glanced over at Paul, then added. "I'm joking, you know."

"No you're not."

He rolled his eyes. "In case you never caught on to it, twat, I quite liked you a lot for reasons besides your God-like musical abilities."

"And what reasons would that be?"

"You're baiting me for compliments, and I'm not going to bite."

"I'm not," he said seriously, and raised his eyebrows at John. "I'm serious. Tell me. What use was I to you other than my musical abilities?"

"Oh, Christ," he groaned. "I see I've led myself into another trap."

"Because it really seemed at the time that you were using me primarily to make your band-"

"Would you fucking _shut up_ about that?" John cut him off, feeling vitriol rising in his throat. "I didn't fucking _use_ you."

"You don't want to admit that to yourself, huh?"

"When did you turn into such a little fucking twat?" he spat. "Christ, Paul, do you not- do you remember any fucking time we spent together? I wasn't using you. I- fucking god, I don't even know." He shoved his hands in his pockets, pulling further away from Paul, before turning back to him and asking, "Do you really think I was using you for the band?"

"I don't know," Paul said sullenly. "I don't know what you thought of me. I still don't. You treated me like I was...like there was something- you-"

"What did I fucking do?"

"God, you led me on, okay?"

John paled. "What?"

"I said this earlier, and you know what I fucking said, and you know what I mean, you led me on, you made me think there was something between us."

"And I told you, there was!"

"You're so stupid," Paul said, his voice wavering. "God fucking dammit. I'm not going to say it."

"I don't know what you mean, Paul."

"I told you this. I already told you this, alright?"

"Paul, I wasn't-" He was terrified, more than he'd ever been in his entire life. Every word was another nail in the casket. He couldn't tell Paul that he hadn't been leading him on, because truthfully he _had_ somewhat, but admitting that would have awful, awful consequences. But he couldn't just let him believe that he'd been bullying him, or whatever he'd taken it as. There was really no way out of this. The weight was back on his chest, pressing down, constricting his lungs and making this word vomit of meaningless garbage spew up. "I wasn't doing that. I'm sorry. You have no idea how awful I feel that I made you feel that way. I just...I do a shit job at telling people I care about them," he said, quieter, and let his head fall. "Um...Julia...she died, last month." He swallowed. "Julia died, and I never, I don't feel like I ever told her how much I loved her."

Paul suddenly stopped. They were standing at the entrance of the park, and he turned to face John for the first time since they'd started walking. Without a word, he took a step forward and pulled John into a ferocious hug, and John realized dumbly that now Paul was the one crying, really, really crying into John's shoulder, and he almost felt himself pull out-of-body for a moment as he was surrounded in the embrace of the boy he'd missed so, so badly. He gripped him close, and felt his own breathing stutter, trying not to think of Julia. He had wanted Paul to know, but he didn't think he could handle thinking about her for very long, especially not today. So he just hugged him, and that was all that really mattered.

A minute later, maybe less, Paul's arms unwound themselves from around John and he took a step backward. His eyes were puffy and eyelashes damp, and he buried his face in his hands a moment before warily meeting John's gaze. His mouth opened, then clamped shut again. He gave him a small, sad smile, and without a word they began walking again, into the park.

It was a while again before Paul spoke. John was feeling untethered and unreal, on too shaky of emotional ground to say anything else. He was thinking about nightmares and daydreams, and Julia, and how closely they were all related, and as he walked, the ghost of her hung around him like a heavy fog. "It's not fair," Paul said, and that was all he would say on the matter. There was not much else to be said; the pain they felt was incommunicable, and yet they both knew exactly how the other felt.

They found a little bench beneath a big oak tree, set off further away from the walking trail, and sat at opposite ends of it. John leaned back, stretching his legs outwards and resting the back of his head on his interlaced fingers, while Paul folded into himself with his arms tightly crossed. He looked over at him, and gave him a funny look.

"What are you all hunched over for?"

"I'm just sitting, you arse."

John laughed a bit, and relaxed further into his seat. In the shade of the tree, few rays of sun poked through, and he could feel the biting chill of spring quite clearly again. With the weight he'd lost, he felt painfully cold-blooded, and made a mental note to either get rich or get more coats by next winter. Whichever seemed more available by then. As though he were telepathic (which, for all he knew, he may have been), Paul asked, "Why do you have such a crap job?"

"It's not crap," he said, then shook his head. "Well, it is crap, but it's just an internship. I'm working my way up in the company."

"I thought you were going to art school."

He winced. "Er. Didn't quite work. Apparently they aren't just accepting any old scribbles nowadays." He paused, weighing the cons of introducing the idea of Cynthia to Paul, and decided to go ahead with it anyway. "My girlfriend, Cynthia, she actually goes there now. She's going to be a graphic designer. She's quite talented, actually."

Paul was silent. He looked over at him, but his mask of indifference was firmly affixed over his face, hiding any possible hurt or jealousy, if he even felt that. The teenager in John almost wished he did; the adult was witheringly ashamed of it.

"How is she?" he asked, all Nice Paulie.

"She's- well, er...you seemed to remember her, actually, she's the blonde girl from the Orange 17 show. You know. The last time you were here."

Paul's eyes widened, and he broke into a smile. "That same girl? Three years later? The one you called the girl of your dreams?"

He smirked, and shrugged. "Turned out to be quite right about that one."

"So she...she is the- the girl of your dreams?"

He could have sworn his ears betrayed him, because in the slightest strain of Paul's voice there seemed to be some of that hurt and jealousy he'd been wary of, and he felt horrid. He didn't know if Cynthia was the girl of his dreams, if that woman even existed, but he wasn't sure there could have been anyone better for him. They made sense; they were partners, in every meaning of the word. But to call her the girl of his dreams?

"I mean, yeah," he said, and didn't sound very convincing. "Well, yeah, she is, we're probably getting married anyroad."

" _Married_? You're- you're 20, John!"

"Aw, well, y'know her folks are a bit old-fashioned and...I just feel lately like I've gotta hang on to the good things in life, yeah?" he said, aching for approval, and Paul nodded solemnly. "We already live together. You can imagine how fond Mimi is of that." Paul laughed. He felt his heart twinge for a moment; he'd forgotten how that sound made him feel buoyant.

"Are you going to invite me to the wedding?" he asked, with just a note of bitterness lurking somewhere in there.

"Of course, you sod. 'Sides, it won't be for awhile." He squinted off into the distance. "We're not doing too well, financially. It'll be better when Cyn's done with school, of course, but for now, it's...it's just a bit tight, s'all. And we're not getting any help from her parents."

"I noticed how thin you look," Paul said softly.

"Yeah, finally! Maybe the only positive part of this whole situation."

The other boy didn't laugh. "Well, it's kind of disturbing, to be honest. Do you...how's your living situation? Do you have an apartment?"

"Yeah, we have an apartment. It's okay," he said, uncomfortable with this conversation. "Bloody expensive, at least. And tiny as fuck. But it's a good place."

"It's weird," he murmured, almost an admission, then looked back over to John. "My memories of you are always as being impossibly old and mature and cool-"

"Haha!"

"Yeah, yeah, fuck off. I mean, you always seemed _big_ , but now it's like...you're really an adult," he said, eyes wide. "And it's so weird. It feels like yesterday, that summer. And back then you were just- well, you were _my_ age! You were just a teenager working at McDonald's and you had a band, and now you're a grown-up guy talking about getting married and working his way up in his company and trying to scrape by and you have your own apartment." Paul suddenly cut himself off, and shook his head. "I still feel like just a kid. You just seem...so much older."

John nibbled his finger, then shrugged lightly. "Well...I've _always_ been older than you."

"Christ, I'm not daft, I fucking know that. You just seem stressed out, s'all. I can tell, with how thin you are and those massive bags under your eyes."

"I've got bags under my eyes?"

"Massive ones, mate."

"Shit. How do they look?"

He turned to Paul and posed like a model, batting his eyelashes, and the kid just scowled and swatted at him. "You look ancient, grandpa. And rough as hell."

"Gee. Thanks."

"Maybe if you'd wear your glasses, your eyes wouldn't be so squinty and baggy."

John, as if on cue, narrowed his eyes. "Squinty and baggy? This just feels kind of mean. Also, I don't need my fuckin' goggles."

"Seems like you do."

"Mm, yes, it seems like all this time in the London smog has done wonders for your judgement."

"Ah, as opposed to the fresh sunshiney air of Liverpool?"

"Well, we are in a park right now."

Paul just scoffed. "You need to get out of here, mate."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean...get out of Liverpool."

He frowned. "Why? And what? Move to London?"

"Why not?"

He rolled his eyes and leaned back further in his seat, crossing his arms. "Sounds like a swell idea. I'll pack my bags and be sure to catch the next train leaving tonight. Thank you for the advice."

"You're being an arse. I'm serious. There are more opportunities there, and-"

"There are opportunities here!"

"It's just-" he sighed, and plopped back against the bench. "Bloody hell, you're _20_ , John. You've got your whole life ahead of you. You're so fucking talented and it seems like you're just sort of wasting it here!"

Now it was John's turn to scowl. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"What, because you're marrying the first girl who smiled at you and laughed at your jokes?" Paul spat back.

"Listen, I'm going to pretend I didn't fucking hear that because I don't want to start another fight with you." He folded his mouth into a thin line, clenching his fists at his sides, then turned back. "She's not the first-"

"Yeah, I know, I know."

"So you don't have to be a cunt about it."

"Yeah." He paused, then said, quieter, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine, just...don't be a fucking cunt."

"I get it."

"Alright."

"But do you get my point?"

"What? That I'm wasting my quote unquote potential?" he barked a laugh. "I've heard that exact phrase more times than I can count, mate."

"You must not be very good at counting."

John laughed for real that time, and let some of the tension go. Paul wasn't _trying_ to be a cunt, as far as he could tell; he was just a dumb kid, giving his dumb advice. More than anything, he just didn't want to scare him off again, because it seemed like he was genuinely enjoying John's company again. So he bit his tongue.

"Yikes, you caught me. That's actually why they wouldn't let me into the fancy art school. Couldn't count good."

"What a pity!"

"Yes, quite. Hey," he said, poking Paul in the arm. "What ever happened to that Dot girl you were always whinging on about?"

He looked taken aback for a second, then opened his mouth into a little 'o' shape. "Dot! Well, funny story."

"Sounds like it's going to be hilarious."

Paul seemed to pretend not to hear that, and started rooting around in his pockets before brandishing his wallet triumphantly. He flipped it open and thumbed through his cards a moment before pulling out a small, black-and-white photo that was creased and stained, and handed it to John. The photo fit in the palm of his hand, and showed a boy and a girl standing across from each other in a dingy backyard. The boy, he realized after a second of squinting, was unmistakably Paul, clad in trousers and a grandpa sweater with the sharp line of his jaw cutting the frame, and John's eyes flitted nervously across as he tried not to focus on how bloody good he looked; the girl looked absolutely tiny standing across from him, holding an umbrella up to his chest, with a dizzyingly short dress on and heels. He looked at the photo for a moment, then raised an eyebrow questioningly at Paul.

"So is this the famous Dot?"

Paul nodded excitedly. "She's my girlfriend."

"Really?" He looked back down at the photo, and couldn't help but smile at the enthusiasm with which Paul seemed to celebrate the fact that he had a girlfriend. "I still don't exactly see how this is funny, though."

"Well, you remember how I'd liked Dot since three years ago? Before I'd even left London?"

"You seemed to mention it a few times."

"Because I thought- well, I thought she liked me. But it turns out she didn't, actually, quite unfortunately. So when I got back from Liverpool she was like 'ugh, Paul, don't talk to me' and she started dating another guy, Mark Heinlein, so that sucked-"

"Jesus Christ, Paulie, you sound like an American teenage girl."

"God, I thought you were over that Paulie crap."

"Never, son," he said, smiling. There was a split second where Paul smiled back at him, puzzledly and brightly, but then his eyes snapped away, and he set his face.

"Um...anyroad. So, Dot, she was dating this Mark guy for the longest time, but then they broke up, and by this time I'd gotten tall and stuff and so people seemed to notice me and she actually came up to me and apologized for having blown me off like that! And, y'know, one thing led to another and now we're dating."

John rolled his eyes so hard he was minorly afraid they might burst out of his skull. "A love story for the ages," he deadpanned. "I think that actually sounds familiar...is that the newest Disney movie?"

"Shuddup! I like her."

"Well, she sounds like a likable girl, alright," he laughed, handing the photo back to Paul, who was frowning.

" _You're_ the cunt here, John."

"Eh, maybe we're both cunts," he said with a shrug. "I'm happy for you, though. She's pretty. Just...kinda sounds like-"

"She was younger, then," Paul insisted. "And she feels real bad about it."

"Yeah, just be wary of ones like that," he warned, tutting his finger.

"You sound like a dad. You're sure this Cynthia bird isn't, ah-"

"Hey! Watch it," he exclaimed. "I'm not becoming a fucking _dad_ anytime soon."

"Sure about that?"

"Christ, I hope not," he mumbled, running his hands through his hair. He could see Paul watching him intently in the periphery of his vision, and without much thought felt his face burning. He hated when he could feel the boy's eyes on him; he was suddenly self-conscious of his shaggy hair, his waning cheekbones, his thin and hawkish nose. He tossed his head back and tried to get the weight off of him.

"Are you going to be?" Paul asked, softly. "I mean, later."

He sat still for a moment, and chewed his lip. "Er...haven't given it much thought."

"Do you want to?"

"Jesus, I don't know, son, I'm _only 20_ as you so blathered on about. Do you plan on knocking Dot up anytime soon?"

Paul snorted and folded over. "I haven't even graduated school!"

"So that's why you're here visiting, yeah? Are you graduating next month?"

"Yeah. Ellen and Kurt invited me up for the weekend cos of it." He curled his hand around the back of his neck and made a sheepish face. "They're giving me some money for school and stuff."

"Where are you going?"

"A music conservatory in London," he said, and his face beamed.

"Goddamn, Macca!" he laughed. "So you're really sticking with the music thing, huh? Thank god."

"Why thank god?"

"You're a bloody genius, I'd hate to see it go to waste on something stupid like...an economics degree or-"

"A media management company?"

"Very funny," he muttered. "Not all of us are blessed with preternaturally good musicianship. Some of us have just...got to do what we can."

"You're right. Not all of us. But you and me-"

"Paul-"

"I'm being serious, John! You were- you deserved to be famous, I don't really know what else to say."

"You were just a kid when you played with me," he said, uncomfortable. "It was a dumb teenage rock band, we didn't- none of us besides you 'deserve to be famous' or whatever. My voice and my guitar playing are shite."

"No they're not," he said, his voice so bloody earnest he wanted to smack him upside the head.

"Why are you defending me like this? I thought you didn't even like me anymore."

"I like you, John," he said, suddenly gripping John's hand, and he suddenly felt all the blood in his body rush to his head and his chest tighten. The warmth of Paul's hand atop his, gripping the fingers, was all his brain could register, and his eyes flew to the other boy's, terrified.

"Yeah?" was about all he could manage.

"I do," he said, with a small nod of the head.

"I..."

"I'm still angry," he clarified, and drew his hand away. "But...hard not to like you anyway, I guess," he said, laughing harshly, almost bitterly. "Guess it's nobody's fault but my own on that one, though."

"I wish you wouldn't be angry."

"Me too," and his voice seemed to be fading around the edges. "I really did miss you."

"I wish you would have let me say goodbye."

"You did-"

"A proper goodbye, Paul."

"What would that have entailed?" he said, and raised one eyebrow, and for the second time since he'd met him, John thought, _welp. This is it. We're going to kiss, and life as I know it is going to end_. It seemed to be buzzing in the air, unspoken, but instead sharing that long-forgotten goodbye kiss, John stood up. He could feel his heart pounding uncontrollably in his chest and his face burning a deep shade of red, burning with shame and embarrassment and guilt and want. He shoved his hands deeply in his pockets and tried to summon Cynthia's face in his mind, her soft eyes and hair like sunshine and easy smile. But all he could see was Paul.

"Something better than what I got," he said begrudgingly, and turned towards the park. "Want to start walking again?" he asked over his shoulder, unable to bear looking at Paul again, and hoped for not the first time that Paul did not feel the same way he did. The shame, the want.

"Sure, I guess."

They began to walk again, down the beaten trail path. John stood a certain pace away from Paul, hands still shoved in his pockets, bracing his body against the cold. He felt unreal, and somewhat disgusted by himself. It wasn't Paul's fault that he felt this way, not really, and for it to strain their already precarious relationship made him feel all pent-up inside. Not that he wished he could tell him, but he wished he could exorcise it from himself somehow. Maybe he needed a shrink.

"Now that we've gotten all the boring life shite out of the way," Paul began, and he snorted.

"This should be good."

"Yes, you know me. Anyway, seriously, what have you been listening to lately?"

He blew his cheeks out. "Good question. Hrmm. Lot of American music, to be honest."

"Yuck."

"Oh, fuck off. I hate all this Britpop shite-"

"Nooo!"

"Yes, God, it sucks."

"You're a traitor to your country. What, do you like _gruuungeee_?" he said, doing a horrible American accent that earned him a swift kick to the shin.

"Christ, you're such a little shit," he grumbled, earning more hyenic laughter from Paul. "And yes, I do, in fact. Er. Some of it anyway. Nirvana- wow. Just amazing. Pavement, Jeff Buckley, Pearl Jam, all fantastic. Those aren't grunge, really, but you know what I mean. I've been listening to a lot of the old blues stuff, too. Robert Johnson, Skip James, Leadbelly."

"Bestill my 14-year-old heart."

"Yes, I remember you playing stuff like that," he said with a light laugh. "'Blue shite,' as Stu so eloquently put it."

"It's good! All those artists you listed are good, you're right, except maybe Pearl Jam-"

"Oi."

"But I just don't understand why you don't like Britpop!"

"Derivative crap, that all is," he scowled. "They're all just ripping off of 60s music. Oasis is a shitty Beatles photocopy. Blur is trying to be David Bowie, although I'd say for that they are somewhat better than their peers."

Paul seemed indignant. "I thought you liked the Beatles!"

"I do! God, I do, I love the Beatles, but they- it's unnerving, to have a band now so clearly just trying to be them. Especially Liam Gallagher. He's just trying to be the reincarnation of the lead singer. There's just no originality here anymore. Everything worthwhile is happening in the States, even if I hate to say it."

"I thought you of all people would be opposed to the cultural destruction of Britain."

He barked a laugh out. "That's rich! The cultural destruction of a country that spent hundreds of years imposing their terror and oppression and hoity-toity culture all over the goddamn globe, and now we must be saved. I am all for our cultural destruction, Paulie. In fact, I'm thinking of moving me and Cyn out to New York when we get some more money."

Paul glanced wildly over at him. "You wouldn't really, would you?"

"Why not?"

"I mean...it just seems... _wrong_. You in New York."

He shrugged. "You're the one who said I needed some adventure in my life, right?" He raised an eyebrow. "Or did you just mean adventure to London?"

If Paul's sheepish silence was anything to go by, he'd hit the nail on the head. He shrugged with a sense of cinematic awareness and turned his face up to the sky, squinting. The sun was blaring aggressively down at them; if he had to guess, and he figured he actually had to, briefly remembering he'd left his watch on his nightstand, he'd say it was getting close to noon. His stomach grumbled in agreement.

"I get it, man," he said. "Hey, wanna get lunch? Or do you have to go back to your aunt's?"

"Er...well, Ellen was probably going to make something, but you could join if you wanted?"

John stared at him and raised his eyebrows. "Do you want me to?"

"Well...yeah. Of course I do. But if you have to get home, I-"

"Pfft, it's not every fuckin' day I get to see little ol' Paul McCartney, now is it? God knows, man, I might not see you again for another three years, may as well make the most of this time while we've got it," he said, and the truth of his words dawned on him as they left his mouth. They seemed to dawn on Paul too, and with a certain sadness he reached over and clapped him on the back. "Let's go see your aunt, son."

...

"Good to see ya, John!"

When they had first gotten back to his house, Ellen had excitedly made them take a series Polaroid together, standing in front of the poster from the Orange 17 gig, and Paul had smiled like someone was holding a gun to his head. John had taken one of the photos with a death glare descended on him from the boy.

The person currently clapping him on the back and guiding him to the dining room table was Paul's uncle Kurt. The mutton chops were out, having been replaced by a full beard, and somewhat diminished the whole Viking thing he'd had going on three years ago. Other than that, everything about their house had remained the same; the records strewn about, Ellen's horrible cooking, the warmth and the comfort. The song remained the same, all except for Kurt's lost mutton chops and Paul. Paul, who sat at the table with a careful quietness, who was avoiding John's stolen glances again, chin resting daintily atop his clasped hands. The 14-year-old boy John remembered could not have been farther away in that moment, replaced instead by this stranger who seemed to retreat inside himself as they ate baked beans and grilled cheese.

"John's going into media management," Ellen said, gesturing with her fork. "Strange, right?"

"You're still here in Liverpool?"

He nodded with a mouth full of beans, giving a goofy approximation of a smile and a thumbs up. He could've sworn he saw Paul in the corner of his eye smiling and lowering his head, but when he looked to him, his face was blank. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. He sighed, and nodded again.

"Yup, still in Liverpool, and I'm at an internship downtown at a media management company. Pretty promising gig."

Kurt made a surprised face. "Always figured you'd go into music, but whatever brings home the money, right?"

"That's what I've been telling people! I'm a proud sell-out, man."

Ellen and Paul shook their heads in the same disapproving manner at the same time, and he was reminded once again how similar they looked. It made him smile a bit to himself.

"Well, I'm not actually that proud, but I've got a- well, I've got a bird I'm pretty serious about, and she's going through school at the moment, so we need the money. And living downtown is pretty goddamn expensive."

"What's her name?"

Paul was staring intently down at his plate and mashing his beans into a pulp with the back of his fork, pushing them back and forth, and John gulped.

"Cynthia Powell. She's from Hoylake originally, but she's here at the art institute. She's- she's amazing, she's really great."

"They're gonna get married," Paul added, with the slightest edge of mocking to his voice.

"Really!" Ellen exclaimed, joyously. "That's amazing!"

"Yeah, when we get more money," he said, laughing a bit. A slight glance over at Paul killed that, though. He seemed to be boiling internally, god knows why with him, but it was upsetting nonetheless. When he'd said it earlier, it'd only confirmed what had been gestating in his mind ever since he'd seen the boy that morning in the grocer's: once again, Paul was going back to London, and the simple fact of the matter was that they probably weren't going to see each other again, at least not anytime soon. He was starting his life, here, with Cynthia, and Paul was starting his. Once again mortality and destiny and life were smacking John in the face; with the decrease in teenage hormones and increase in exhaustion, he faced this truth quite wearily. But for now, Paul was here, and so was he, and he didn't want him to hate him; his mind whirred, thinking, _well we can exchange phone numbers and London is only four hours away and when me and Cyn get married he'll come..._

"I'll take your dishes if you're done," Ellen said, collecting their dirty plates and forks.

"Oh. Thank you."

"Wanna go to the backyard?" Paul asked, standing up. For a moment his height once again stupefied John; his mental image of Paul in this house was of the tiny, eager to please 14-year-old kid, not this strange facsimile of an adult who towered over him with cool indifference. After a moment of what probably seemed like him just blankly staring up at Paul, he nodded his head dumbly, and the other boy muttered something about going to grab his guitars.

The backyard, like most other things, was still the same, and it brought indescribable joy to John. He looked around for a minute, and found the lawn chairs set up under the stairs; he dragged them to the center of the yard, facing one another, and closed his eyes for a moment as he remembered that wonderful summer. Paul appeared through the sliding doors a minute later, with an acoustic slung over his back and another, smaller one in his arms. He gave John the smaller one and sat across from him.

"It's nice to be back here, innit?" John said, unable to suppress a grin.

"'Tis," Paul said, the blankness still plaguing his voice. He strummed a few experimental chords, head hung low and watching his fingers carefully, something John knew he never had to do.

"Are you going to show me some of that fancy guitar playing that got you into a music conservatory?"

Paul rolled his eyes, then started playing a stupid 12-bar-blues riff, headbanging excessively with his eyes screwed shut. "Just this. For an hour."

"Truly inspirational. You really do have a God-given talent."

"I do try."

"Remember any of the ol' Hellcats' tunes?"

"Christ, they're not that old," he mumbled, playing an unformed riff that sounded something like 'My Girl's a Monster.' "It wasn't a lifetime ago. It's been three summers. Still feels like it was last week, sometimes."

"I've lived the equivalent of a lifetime in that time, son," John said lowly, answering the riff Paul had played with the chords of the chorus, humming lightly. He could feel Paul's eyes raising to gaze at him, huge and soft, the weight of the world imbued in them. John caught his glance for a second before forcing himself to break away. In the sunlight his eyes looked like kaleidoscopes, refracting green and gold and brown and shimmering and _beautiful_. This was all too much, too soon. He needed a bloody warning before someone looked at him like that.

"I'm sorry," Paul said, and he knew he meant it.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for. I'm the one who fucked everything up. You- you deserved better than that." He cleared his throat. "You _deserve_ better than that."

"I don't want to not talk to you for another three years."

"That's how it has to be, Paul," he said, abandoning all pretense of fiddling around with the guitar. "You know? It's so shite but that's just the way it has to be."

"No it doesn't."

"I'm staying here. You're leaving, again. It's just...we can't just be together, like that." He shook his head, and clarified. "We can't be friends like the way- I mean, the way I want to be, and see each other all the time and play guitar and hang out in backyards. You're going to school; I have a job, I'm going to have a family."

"Guys with wives and kids still have friends," Paul frowned, and it hit John numbly that he really still hadn't fucking clued in yet. He sighed and tried to harden that part of him, tried not to give everything away.

"Yeah," he said, shrugging slightly. "Well...I was thinking, I mean, if you wanted, we can exchange numbers."

"Of course I want that."

"You can't blame me for not knowing that. I still don't know if you're mad at me or not, you know."

"I'm not mad at you," he admitted with a tinge of sadness. "I'm not fucking...I can't say I never was, and I think I still was when I saw you this morning, but...it all sort of fades away, you know? The more perspective you give yourself on the situation."

"Because of Stu?" he asked, and knew that wasn't even close to the fucking truth, and Paul just sort of shrugged uncommittedly.

"Yeah, yeah."

"Or something else."

"I guess it was mainly the Stu thing," he mumbled, and John wasn't terribly convinced. "I just...I was never sure what you thought of me."

"I mean, admittedly I thought you were a _bit_ of a twerp when I first met you but you were also this little kid who claimed he should be in my band- which, y'know, I may have sort of assumed was an unfounded thing to claim, but you did prove that to me within the first week I knew you. Then, of course, I got to know you, and..." he trailed off, waving his hands vaguely. "You know."

"And what?"

"Well, I liked you a lot after that, you know."

"..."

"You know that, right?"

"Do you remember that one day you came over to listen to Red Hot Chili Peppers with me and you ran out?"

The memory dawned dimly on John, and he had a vague understanding that it had been because the closeness to Paul in his tiny room had made him go somewhat insane, but of course he wasn't about to tell him any of that, especially not that. He nodded his head, feigning ignorance and poor memory. "Yeah...I think I had to go to Julia's that day."

"Yeah, that's what you said," Paul said, but again did not sound properly convinced. "That was when...that was when I started to worry again if you really wanted to be friends or not. And then at the show...with you and Stu making fun of me..." he moved his head away, nibbling his finger with his eyes downcast, shoulders drawn up tensely.

"I didn't want to go," John began carefully. "And I told you, I wasn't making fun of you."

"Yeah," he said, and the memory of Paul's earlier outburst of anger about that event danced circles in his mind.

"Stu was a prick, I know, I shouldn't have indulged him."

"It's okay," he said with a slow shake of the head. "Doesn't really matter, right? Like you said, we aren't going to see each other after this. So what does my opinion matter to you?"

"You're being dramatic, and you know it."

"John, I don't want to get into another fight."

"Then don't say shit like that!"

"But you know it's true!" he yelled, his wavering voice betraying how upset he was. "You fucking said it yourself."

"Paul, that's how life is. It's just not-"

"It doesn't have to be," he cried almost desperately.

"Paul, Paul," he said, scooting forward in his chair to clasp the boy's hands in his, gripping them tightly. "I know. I know."

"You're not even thinking about it."

"There are some things- I know I'm not that much older than you, but when you get to school, you're going to get it more, alright? Life has a way of chewing you up, stealing your energy, making you weak...until it doesn't matter what you wanted, what you hoped for, what you dreamed of, you're just too tired to fight back...that four hour drive from London to Liverpool..." he paused, and shook his head. "It'll feel like it might as well be on opposite ends of the planet."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Paul said, and his eyes were burning with tears unfalling, voice almost a whisper.

"I do."

"You just think that because you're in a bad spot right now," he protested weakly.

"Do you think we're going to live next door to each other in London and have dinner parties and carpool to work together every fucking day, Paul? What do you think we _are_?" John said in a bout of frustration, regretting it as soon as it left his mouth. Paul retracted like he'd been burnt, mouth hanging open in a little 'o'. Then he snarled, and narrowed his eyes, and stood right up and walked to the other side of the yard.

"I guess we're nothing, _asshole_!" he yelled over his shoulder, crossing his arms and staring at the fence. John wanted to smack himself upside the head from the comical horridness of it all; he couldn't believe he'd let his stupid mouth say that, with Paul already pulling away from him and all. The truth was that _of course_ that was what he wanted, if he was being honest, so he wasn't sure why he'd felt the need to mock him like that.

"...I'm sorry," John said quietly, begrudgingly, a few moments later. "I was just saying that...to make a point. I didn't- I don't really think that. I was just being a cunt."

Paul didn't turn around, but his words were biting enough to carry back to John. "What _are_ we, John?"

"I...we're mates, Paul. I mean...if you leaved here, if you had lived here...we'd be _best_ mates."

"So why do you have to be a dick about it?"

A laugh escaped him before he had the chance to think. "I think you're on to something, there."

"I'm being serious."

"Yeah, I know. I don't know why I have to be a dick." He buried his face in his hands. "I don't know why. It's sort of ruining my life, you see. It's ruining this-" and he gestured between the two of them, "-which, I don't know if I've ever really properly expressed this to you, but for some unknown reason matters...quite a lot...to me."

Paul turned around, arms still crossed, and fixed him with a look that seemed to be sizing him up. Something unreadable floated in those big eyes, before falling to stare at the grass.

"I guess the solution here would be to stop being a dick," he said.

"Fair assessment."

"Yeah, well...I don't want you to change," he mumbled, nudging the toe of his trainer into the dirt. "Not for me. Not for anyone."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I think you're wonderful, John," he said, clear as day. He must have looked quite taken aback, as it was certainly how he felt, and Paul snickered a bit. "Even if you're a dick sometimes. And I mean, that could probably do well with some work. But I still...you shouldn't let this world chew you up and spit you out. And please, please don't get a big head. I just mean-"

"That I'm wonderful."

"You're being an arse."

"But you wouldn't want me to change that, now would you?"

"Gah. Fuck off. I don't know why I tell you anything."

"Must be because you care about me too," he said with a wink, and was privately delighted to see how furiously it made Paul blush.

"Erm...um. Hey, listen. I have to go pay a visit to someone else while I'm here in town."

"Damn, who?"

"Er, I doubt you know him. George? George Harrison. He's- I think he's 16 now, so-"

"Doubt I know him."

"Yeah," he said, and cleared his throat. "Um, that day that you were at the theater seeing Terminator 2 with that girl and I was there too? I was with George."

John had absolutely no trouble remembering that day, reminded uneasily as it being the first time he'd felt something more for Paul; the existence of anyone on the fringes of that memory were hazy, blurred by time and selective memory, although he did think he somewhat recall seeing a kid with big ears beside Paul. This, by virtue of the simplest answer most often being the right one, was most likely Paul's friend George.

"I remember," he said casually. "Not so much this Georgie. You want to pay him a house visit?"

"You probably shouldn't call him Georgie."

"Shame, why not? I call you Paulie."

"You're a terror."

"Yes, but you wouldn't want me to change, now would you?"

Paul smacked himself upside the head, but he could swear there was a smile working its way in there somewhere.

...

This George Harrison's house was only a few houses down the block from Paul's aunt and uncle's; John hadn't asked yet how exactly he knew the boy, considering he'd thought he'd been the one Paul had spent all his time in Liverpool with, but jealousy raised suspicion, so he did his best to tamper it. It may not have exactly been working, unfortunately.

"He plays the guitar, too," Paul explained as they walked down the block. "Kurt knows his family, and he introduced us. We just played guitar together a few days, and we saw that movie together." He wagged his finger at him. "Which we went to go see because you'd cancelled on me that evening, if you recall."

"I have absolutely zero memory of that ever happening."

"Awful convenient."

"Quite, innit?"

"So I just want to say hi- er, you'll like him, he's a really good player. Just-" and he grabbed John's arm, tight, and stopped to look him in the eyes firmly. "Please don't make a scene. And you know what I mean."

"Is he better at the guitar than me?"

Paul shook his head, confused. "What?"

"Is he. Better at. Guitar. Than-"

"No, I get it, I get it. I- that's a teenage girl question, John, come on."

"That means he is."

"You'll like him."

They stepped through a wrought-iron gate into a small, well-kept yard with neatly trimmed grass and flower boxes on every available surface, framing a wide, grand porch of green and white. Paul leapt up the stairs eagerly and John trotted after him, eyes skimming around for a way out. But then there was Paul, so close he could feel his warmth again, and all other thoughts were shuttered out of his mind. He took a deep breath and willed himself to stand incredibly still as Paul rang the doorbell.

"This reminds me of walking up to the stoop at Pete's house so I could audition for you," Paul whispered, leaning over. "I was so unbelievably terri-"

Suddenly the door swung open, and they were faced with a small boy with a sharp chin, standing plaintively in jeans and socks and a sweatshirt with dirt stains like he'd just come out of the garden. His face broke into a bewildered smile upon recognizing Paul, revealing pokey vampire teeth, and he stepped forward to pull the boy into a big hug.

"Paul!" he exclaimed, hands curled tightly around his shoulders. "It's so good to see you!"

"Yeah, it's- wow! It's been a long time, it's so good to see you too."

John felt terribly, terribly unnecessary, and was seriously considering making a run for it when Paul turned to him with a dizzyingly bright smile and said, his voice filled with undeniable joy, "This is John, this is the John guy I was always blathering on about."

George (he could only assumed this was the famous George fellow) looked a bit surprised, and waved a bit awkwardly. "Oh, hi John. S'nice to meet you."

John gave him a tight smile and nodded curtly.

"So, er, Paul what're you..." the boy said (and he really was just a boy to John, looking no older than Paul had all those summers ago, and he felt like an oversized adult man in the presence of these teenagers). "What're you doing back in Liverpool?"

"I'm just back visiting my aunt and uncle."

"Oh, wait, I think my mum actually mentioned something about you coming back- so that would indeed be today, right?"

"Here I am," Paul said, still beaming. It was clear he held a soft spot for this George boy. John was trying not to let it drive him insane. "Um, can we...?"

"Oh yeah! Of course, you guys can come in," he said, and ushered them in through the door to a small hallway. He instructed them to take their shoes off, and asked if they wanted anything to drink. John felt like he was in an orange juice commercial. Then they followed George into his kitchen, where they were sat down at the table. Definitely an orange juice commercial. John was eyeing the kitchen window as a viable form of emergency exit.

George placed a glass of water in front of each of them, and sat down cross-legged on a chair across from theirs. He was a wiry kid, but there was an air of calm around him that was somewhat intriguing, like one of those ancient Buddhist monks. He folded his hands on the table and looked back to Paul.

"So...how are you, man? It's been like, what, three years?"

Paul nodded, gulping water, and John was pointedly not staring at his throat. "Three years this summer."

"Why'd it take you so long to come back?" he asked with a laugh, and John had to applaud him for asking what he'd wanted to for approximately three years.

"School," was his lame response, with a grimace. "And, er...family stuff. You know how it is."

"Yeah," George nodded. "So are you going off to college or what now?"

"Music conservatory."

"Wow! That's super cool. You, er-" he then pointed awkwardly at John. "You were in the band with him, right?"

John quirked a smile. "The Hellcats."

"I saw that show, at Orange 17." He looked at both of them and nodded quickly. "That was a really good show. I almost didn't get in, actually, I had to get Ivan to vouch for me. But yeah, that was a really cool show. You're-" he suddenly broke off into a strange laugh, covering half his face with his hand. "We all thought you were the fucking coolest, man."

"Me?" John said.

"Hell yeah, you were the lead singer in a rock band and every girl at my school was in love with you."

He smirked and crossed his arms. Paul groaned.

"His ego is going to explode."

"That's funny, I always fancied myself somewhat of a local celebrity."

"He's horrid. Pay no mind to him. How have you been? Over the phone it doesn't really-"

John balked, feeling his heart do something funny. _Over the phone?_ A few seconds and he knew it; that little shit had had the mind to give this random _8-year-old_ his phone number before leaving but not _him_! He clamped his fists together tightly, and gave Paul a stern look. He could tell from the slight weight to his brow that Paul knew _exactly_ what was up, but was distinctively avoiding John's gaze. Like the little fucker thought he didn't know peripheral vision was a thing. It was outlandish.

"Yeah, I'm putting together a little band myself."

"Are ya now?" John interjected snidely, not having listened to any of the conversation prior to this. George gave him a questioning look, and nodded slowly. Finally Paul looked at him, completely exasperated a look as it was, and kneed him under the table before resuming conversation like nothing had happened. This may as well have been an official declaration of war. He flexed his ankle and casually knocked the other boy's foot, so swiftly as though it may have been an accident. Paul flinched for a moment, but still did not acknowledge him. That was rich; it earned him a second, harder kick in the foot, and this time Paul folded his lips together.

"Oh, really? Who's in it?"

"It's actually a bit of a coincidence, Pete Best's little brother, Arthur, he's our drummer. And, er, do you know Alan Shaffer?"

"Isn't that kid like...nine years old?" John could not help but ask. "I went out with his older sister once, and I'm pretty certain he was-" he mimed patting a tiny kid on the head. "Nine years old."

"He's 13, actually."

"What does he play? The triangle?"

Paul was not-so-subtly giving him those big calf eyes that silently and urgently implored him to shut up. He snuck his foot over to the boy's, nudging it before resting it on top of his ankle, nonchalantly lacing their feet together. Paul's eyes seemed to widen in terror, surprising as he had not thought it was possible for them to get any bigger. His face was the color of a freshly cut beet, as though he were suddenly 14 years old again, and John reveled in it.

"He's a bassist, he's...er, he's decent."

"George is a fantastic guitar player," Paul said quickly, his voice clearly strained as John tugged their feet closer together, shin against shin. "I'd- I'd, er...um...if you, um, if you make a recording, I'd love- I'd love to hear it, um, yeah." John was slowly pushing up the hem of Paul's jeans, running the side of his trainers against Paul's exposed skin. The boy's knuckles were paper-white, clutched with a death grip on the table.

"You should have played for my band rather than Paulie here!" John said with a laugh.

"Ah, I'm not much of a bassist," George said. "I've never really gotten to play any, at least."

"Maybe we could, um, maybe we could play some together!" Paul exclaimed, finagling his foot away from John's, clearly desperate for an out.

"Damn, I don't know if I can," George said, craning his neck to look at the kitchen clock behind them. "It's a quarter to 4."

"Holy shit- are you serious?"

George nodded, looking back at the clock.

"Shit," John said. "Oh, shit, shit. Cyn. Oh fuck. Okay, um..." He looked back to Paul, grimacing, then smacked himself over the forehead. "I've- fuck, I've really gotta go. We have to- alright, fuck, okay, it was nice to meet ya, George. See ya around sometime." He leapt out of his chair and hastily walked to the door, feeling his chest rising and falling unevenly. He was a bit fucked. Okay, he may have been more than that. He and Cynthia were supposed to be going out for drinks with some of her friends at half past 4, and he was on the other side of the city and oh god he'd forgotten her coffee, that was the entire fucking point he'd left the house that morning and she had no idea where he was-

"John! Jesus Christ, wait up!"

He felt an arm grab his and spin him around, stopping him before he'd dashed out the iron gate. It was Paul, face wrought with confusion and offense, if he was seeing straight. He dropped his arm, and exhaled harshly.

"Paul, I am so sorry-"

"Why are you running? I-"

"I have to..." He dropped his gaze, and sighed. "I have to meet my girlfriend, I have to go home. Um- wait! You can come, yes, oh my god yes, you can come and meet her...?" A few seconds passed and Paul said nothing, maintaining his poker face, and he ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "If you want. I mean, if you want to. I would- I would love for you to come."

"I can't do that," Paul said quietly, and lowered his head. "John...come on. I _can't_."

"But..." he blubbered. "You _can_ , I mean, you're leaving tomorrow for chrissakes, I don't want to say goodbye to you yet, I've barely gotten to see you again and this was such a fun day and-"

"It's just not a good idea," he murmured, and met his gaze sadly, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And I- I want to spend time with George, and my aunt and uncle."

"Fuck, Paul, don't do this to me again," he half-whispered, feeling the lump in his throat grow and his eyes burn. "I thought we'd gotten better at this."

"Saying goodbye?"

"Yeah."

"I know, but...you said it yourself. It's the way it has to be."

He took a deep breath, using every fiber in his body trying not to cry. "I was just being a dick, Paul."

"Yeah. I know. But...it's true."

"Christ, you're gonna make me start crying in public again," he said, trying to laugh, but it came out like a sob. A few moments passed of Paul being silent again, before he suddenly reached out to touch his arm again, and told him to wait just a minute. He stood still, dumb and confused and numb, abating the warmth in his face by trying to recite passages from books Cynthia made him read, counting to ten over and over again, clenching his fists until they felt raw, until Paul finally ran back out to him from inside George's house. He was carrying a little packet of paper and a red pen. He uncapped the pen and shoved the paper to John's chest, quickly scribbling something on it before lowering it to his hands.

"Here. Just take this. And- let's do everything we can not to fulfill destiny, eh?" he said, clearly trying to laugh away tears himself, putting on a horrible impersonation of a smile, finally pulling John into one last hug.

One last hug from the boy he'd missed every single day for almost three years.

A reunion that had turned into another fucking goodbye.

He pulled Paul tight against him, knowing in his heart of hearts that it could as well have been the last time he'd ever touch him, ever smell his soap, run his hand along the fine hairs of his nape. He buried his face in the crook of his neck for just a second, the longest he could allow himself, before pulling away tearfully and plastering on an equally fake smile.

"Alright. Goodbye, goodbye."

"Goodbye, John."

"Er, Paul...?"

"Yeah?"

He stood staring at him, face open and completely full of trust, the most beautiful face he'd ever seen and the only one he ever wanted to see when he fell asleep at night, and memorized the way he looked, just then. The late sunshine lighting his features, his eyes shining, something hopeful residing in the lines of his face. Then he smiled, really smiled, and shook his head.

"Nothing. Nevermind. Alright, goodbye, I'll- I'll see you around."

"Whenever you're in London," he replied hoarsely. "You have a place to stay."

"Fuck that," he said, laughing and laughing harder as he saw an equally real smile alighting Paul's face. "I'm staying at the Ritz."

"Of course."

"Yeah...alright, shit, I've really got to go."

"Goodbye, again!"

"Goodbye, Paul," he said, and felt someone flicking the light switch off inside him.

...

Twenty minutes later he was sitting in his car, too numb to cry, holding the paper Paul had given him in hands that shook uncontrollably. Julia was sitting beside him, whispering something that sounded like when you put your ear up to a conch. He took a deep breath and looked down at the paper.

It was a pamphlet, one of those ones you get at the doctor: 'What To Do When a Loved One Has Dyslexia', written in a loopy font above a stock photo of a mother sitting beside her son, who was frowning intensely at a book with his chin resting on his fist. A hollow laugh came out without any forethought; there was some joke to be made here about Paul choosing this pamphlet to write on, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. He flipped it over, then opened the front flap.

There, in red pen, Paul had scrawled a string of digits. A phone number. He traced the numbers with his index finger, feeling the indentation, feeling how real it all was, then read the inscription beneath it.

_'call me, please :) i don't think i can wait another three years again -xo, Paul'_

Tears were falling down his face now openly, his throat choking up with sobs as he cried and cried and cried, and he clutched the papers close to his chest and felt the world descending upon him.

_Goodbye, Paul._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it'll get better!!! i promise! i've just gotta lay on the angst before we get to the good bits :^)


	7. Long, Long, Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine years after their last meeting, Paul has established a good life for himself with an enviable career and beautiful fiancee, but the reappearance of a boy from Liverpool he once knew is bound to go ruining everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go! finally lol

_It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important. – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry_

_..._

_September, 2003_

It's a strange thing, to wait. Time moves differently; every moment feels at once more important and more excruciating than the last. You overthink everything, and read too much into coincidence. A random passerby on the street becomes a hallmark to the good things coming. You feel nauseous all the time and think it's all for the best. A door will open and you think: _this is it, the moment has come; they're going to walk through the door, and my time waiting in the dark will be over._ And then the moment doesn't come, and it just keeps going. On and on, ad nauseum.

Time moves especially different when you've been waiting for something a very long time.

Say, nearly ten years.

In the beginning, each day is more fraught, more heightened to the sensitivity of possibility, more cinematic in its destruction. You can spend a whole day waiting by the phone, staring down the hour hand on the clock, tapping your foot impatiently as daylight dwindles down. You feel sick to your stomach from overthinking and worrying, strangely guilty and yet delighted that something can make you feel so alive. But slowly, so slowly you don't even notice at first, it all becomes a bit... _dulled_. The day passes when you don't think about waiting, and then maybe those days start happening more and more, and then maybe, someday, it will come to pass that you can't even clearly remember what it was you were waiting on.

But this is the thing: when the thing you're waiting on has really got a hold on you, they're never just really _gone_ like that.

And that was the way Paul felt about John, more or less.

He'd had nearly ten years of waiting to think about everything, time out of mind enough to try and contextualize and process what all had really happened. When he was younger, he had a hard time sorting out his feelings for John into ways that made sense, and some days it was all he could do not to drive up to Liverpool and go banging on his door demanding answers. During this time the possibility of that phone call coming through still hovered above a 50%, and his years spent at school were demarcated by a witheringly juvenile obsession with the idea of John that plagued him day and night and repulsed those around him. But by the time he graduated and set off into the adult world, four long years had passed with a phone call that had still never come, and so the period of his adolescent, devotional fixation with John faded and the reign of anger came to pass.

The Reign of Anger, as he liked to refer to it in his head, was a period of about four months where the mere mention of the name 'John' was enough to send him into a catatonic rage. He did his best not to be incredibly overt about it, but to the people in his life at the time (well, mostly just George), it was pretty bloody obvious what was up. It was around 1998 by this time, and he'd learned through the winding grapevine down from Liverpool that John had, in fact, ended up marrying that Cynthia girl and sometime in the past two years'd had a baby with her.

This, of course, meant that along with never bothering to ring Paul up on the phone for even the briefest of conversations, he had not been invited to the wedding, nor the baby shower or baby party or whatever fucking else. Paul's immediate reaction to this was anger, clearly, and a sense of hopelessness to the whims of destiny and fate that led to many long, lonely nights spent nursing a bout of lite-alcoholism, a hole he really only pulled himself out of when he'd met Jane.

Jane Asher was the most self-accomplished, intelligent, worldly, and beautiful girl he'd ever met, let alone gone out with. His most serious relationship prior to her had been the ill-fated teenage gaff with Dot, which had ended when they went to different colleges, and in the interim period from 1994 to 1999 (roughly), he'd been on a bender of sorts with the bachelor life. Jane ended all of that, of course. They both felt from the start that it was serious; he'd had a sense of déjà vu when he first saw her in the grocery store, the kind you get during a vivid dream where your brain has already constructed the whole plot, and you're left with only the dull and muted sense that you've done all of this before. Spotting her bright head of auburn hair between various kiosks of produce, appraising a bag of tomatoes, he saw her and immediately felt clued in to something bigger than him. It was something he'd felt only once before upon meeting someone, although he tried not to dwell on the particulars of that. And so without much thought he'd gone up and tapped her on the shoulder and that was the end of it all.

Or, he should say, the beginning of all else.

They'd been dating for four years now, and had been living on the top floor of her parent's posh five-story townhouse for about two-thirds of that time. Although, it had been last Christmas that he'd proposed to her, meaning they'd technically been fiancé and fiancee for nearly a year out of the four, but he still just called her his girlfriend. They had mutually decided to wait to get married until Jane's television career took off, because then they'd be able to afford a house on their own, particularly one of the houses she fancied on Cavendish Avenue.

Jane had been in a relatively famous television show as a little girl, but her parents had decided to keep her out of the film industry as much as possible as to maintain her sanity and sense of self, and so she had instead spent the last 20-odd years establishing herself as a very accomplished and respected stage actress. But, as George often quipped, all things must pass, and so she had come to the decision to make her return to the small screen. This came with a number of fancy new agents and management folk who seemed to drift in and out of the house all day, which he didn't mind so much as it seemed to bring more life and excitement into the place.

Several of them resided there now, all gathered round the table in the dining room as they sang happy a Very Happy 25th Birthday to Jane. Her quiet face gleamed in the orange glow of the candles, finally leaning down swiftly after the last swells of music to blow out the 25 impeccably placed candles on her favorite strawberry cake. He tucked his hand around her waist, swaying her towards him as she methodically extinguished the tiny candles.

"Well? What did you wish for?"

The flame hadn't even flickered out from the end of a single candle before someone impatiently called out into the silence with their inane question. Jane kept her eyes squeezed tight, smiling furtively and shaking her head.

"I could never tell, then it won't come true!" she insisted.

"She's right. That's-" "-bunch of old wive's tales-" "-I'm just _curious_ , s'all-"

"I bet she wished Paulie had the balls to marry her already!"

Paul's grip on Jane's waist tightened, and he knew instantly that every pair of eyes in the room had apologetically descended upon them. He swallowed noticeably, and picked up the cake knife. No one was speaking, except for Jane's dunce-headed cousin standing at the opposite end of the table, all pig-eyed and smarmy with his mouth hanging open like a dullard's. He was, of course, the one who'd spoken. Paul was trying his best not to take it particularly personal, as Frankie was one of the only men he knew that would show up to a birthday party that started at 10 in the morning already plastered, but he could feel the threat of anger choking at his throat.

"We already have a date set," Paul said breezily. "It's all a matter of waiting, now, for Jane's show to debut."

A few people around the table lamely whooped about that, entirely comprised of her agents and her parents, and Frankie's slack-jawed, instigating glare only deepened. Thankfully some relative or another recognized the situation's potentiality and quickly grabbed Frankie's loose arm, escorting him neatly away from the table for a nice sobering walk around the block.

"So, Jane, what's the plot of this new show?"

"Well," she began, putting on her Talking-to-Professionals-About-My-Work voice, clearing her throat and taking a step away from Paul. "I don't want to reveal too much, but it's a period piece that takes place in the 60s and..."

Needing to feel useful, Paul busied himself by attending to cake-cutting duties, happily doling out perfect slices of pink cake on little white plates as guests rounded the table.

"Only Paul McCartney would be gentlemanly enough to serve cake at his fiancee's birthday party!" Jane's grandmother said when it was her turn, voice all wobbly and grasping at his forearm. He smiled kindly at her, pulling her into a slight hug. He absolutely adored Jane's family (with the key exceptions of annoying drunkard cousins such as Frankie, but those were few and far between); they were the closest, tightest-knit family he'd ever met, one he could have sworn only existed on TV, but they were the real deal. Her parents especially were endlessly supportive and loving, and of course had been letting them live with them that past two years so they could save as much money as possible. They were a warm, welcoming family of a high intellectual caliber, the type of family that would play word games at dinner for fun. Paul admittedly had some trouble keeping up with them in that regard, but it was made up for in Jane's mother's proficiency in music that she gladly shared with Paul. She was a professor of the oboe at a nearby university, and had happened to do some work in the program he'd taken at his conservatory. She offered him lessons on the piano for free, and had even allowed him to move the baby grand piano up from the basement up to their level, although that that itself was a curse of some sort in that it took several days and many helpers to get up five narrow sets of stairs. It now sat in the corner of the room, beneath the big picture window overlooking the street. His fingers ached now to be _doing_ something constructive; they were shuttered now by the coils of cake-giving, something he never thought he'd be so anxious about...

"Paul? You alright, hon?"

There was Jane again, suddenly reappeared out of the crowd from networking, her pale hand resting on his arm in the unconsciously caring way he so loved her for. He took the hand in his and smiled as encouragingly as he could manage.

"Just a bit tired, s'all."

"Here, let's slip away for a moment..." she murmured, and quickly led them through the dining room and into the kitchen. She stood him in front of the sink and leaned on the counter across from him, crossing her arms across her paisley dress. She gave him a knowing look, and his stomach clenched at the thought of what this could all be about.

"What's wrong?" he asked, carefully. "Did I-"

"Did you hear what Frankie said?" she suddenly burst out. "I'm so fuc-"

"Yes," he said, cringing. "Yes, I did. I'm- I'm so sorry, love, that was-"

"He was just...drunk, I know, but it still bothers me," she mumbled, leaning further back against the counter. "I mean, it really bothers me, Paul. We've been engaged for, what, how many months now?"

"Jane, can we not right now?" he pleaded desperately, putting his hands on her shoulders. " _Later_ , yes-"

"You never want to have this conversation."

"Because I thought we were in agreement over it!"

"If your idea of agreement is you saying something _stupid_ and then me being _silent_ , you've seriously got some deeper issues," she scoffed.

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. This is just-" He peeked around her to where the guests were milling about in the dining room with their cake, and she grabbed him by the hairs in his beard and forced him to look back at her. "Sorry! This is just- it's your birthday, and I want you to be happy, I want us to be happy." He was sure the words sounded as lame to her as they sounded to him as they came out of his mouth, and she just gave him a questioning look.

"Alright, Paul, since your way isn't working out, we're going to do it my way."

He widened his eyes and nodded once, terrified of what she was about to say. "Are you-"

She took a deep breath, and said, "Consider this your ultimatum."

" _Jane_ -"

"An ultimatum! If you do not marry me by the end of the year, I will assume you don't want to marry me at all."

"Jane, are you..." he sputtered, trailing off as she just fixed him with a stony glance. "Alright. You're not joking. Er...Christ. But I-? Okay. The end of the year? That's- well, Jesus, Jane, that's only like three months away?"

"I don't want to have been someone's fiancee for over a year. It's silly and embarrassing."

He put a hand to his forehead, frowning. "But...I mean...is that even enough time to plan a wedding?"

"I thought you didn't want a big wedding."

"Well, I _don't_ , but I thought you might."

"At this point," she sighed. "I just want you to decide what you want. Just think about it, Paul." Then she shook her head, and started to walk away. "Maybe you should have decided before you thought to fucking propose to me on Christmas Day..."

"Now _that's_ not fair."

She brushed past him back into the dining room, head turned with casual indifference, as his mind whirred at a million miles per hour and he desperately tried to assemble some sort of logical thought flow in his mind. _Caterers, venues, flowers, a dress, groomsmen, Jane, money, money, money..._

"Paul! Can you help me find Celia? I think she wandered into the backyard?"

Some relative or another was grabbing at him again, spinning him around, and all he could do was nod dumbly and feel himself being pulled to the door, feel himself being pulled apart by horses...

...

Later that night, Paul sat down to the piano and began to play. The notes didn't make much sense; he'd never felt particularly native to the piano the way he did with the guitar or bass, and his fingers were still awkward and fumbling at times if he was not devoting careful attention to where they should land. But tonight, with all else consuming his mind, he let his fingers fall where they may and the graspings of a melody began to take form as he sat and stared out the window. His darkened reflection was staring back out at him, one eyebrow quirked, thinking: _so what are you going to do, Paulie?_

Of course he loved Jane. That wasn't the question; it never had been. He'd just thought they were past this adolescent squabbling, that the length of their engagement wasn't a matter of national _silliness_ and _embarrassment_. She knew full well this wasn't the proper time to get married, especially on such little notice with what would have to be incredibly hurried and/or truncated and/or nonexistent planning; also considering they had virtually no money to either of their names. He'd brought that pertinent little fact up with her sometime during the party, but she'd busiedly dismissed that saying that she still had some money saved from her television days and that her parents would help. The money thing genuinely made him sick to his stomach. He knew that this fabled "television money" could not have been more than a hundred quid, and, even as nice and well-off as her parents were, there was a limit to their funds that probably began and ended with the procurement of a catering service. And now all this responsibility had been dumped on him, as though they were still in the Dark Ages and not the 21st fucking century and it was his job as the man in the relationship to have all the agency and culpability in the entire planning of a bloody _wedding_.

He yanked his hands off of the piano, discordant and jarring chords echoing in the small interior, a pounding migraine realizing itself between his temples. As though he'd been burnt, he waved his hands outwards, miserable and incoherent of thought from the nails being driven into his skull, and stood to a wobbly stand to go find some Advil.

He'd no sooner taken a step into the hallway than he ran right into Jane's mother, and burst out into an instant flurry of apologies. She laughed and took a step backward, waving her arms.

"You scared me, Paul!" she said, placing her hands on her hips in the same way Jane did. She shook her head. "I was just coming up to talk to you."

"Oh-"

"Jane told me."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Er-"

"Paul, as her mother...alright, actually, why don't I follow you in so we can sit down and talk properly."

And so she followed him back into his room, and they sat down on opposite ends of the orange loveseat beneath his bookshelf. The piano stared down at them, teeth of ivory keys pulled into a crooked, menacing grin. Jane's mother was not necessarily a scary woman, but her angular thinness and penchant for black clothing did lend a slightly intimidating air to her. She crossed her ankles, sighed, and took her little reading glasses off and folded them in her lap. She looked back up to Paul with a smile that seemed tired.

"As Jane's mother," she began, carefully. "I am confident in saying I know her better than most people. And you, I know, are as familiar with Jane's character as anyone outside of the Asher family can be."

He nodded dumbly.

"Which is why I believe you know as well as I do that Jane is a very stubborn girl, something for which I am normally quite proud of, but that when she sets her mind to something..."

"She's not going to change it," he finished quietly.

"Yes," she said. "An exception I don't think she will make for this ultimatum situation she told me about."

"Yeah," he said, staring blankly at the floor. "Yes. I know. She's, er...no, she was very firm in her decision, that much was clear." He ran a hand through his beard thoughtfully, adding, "I can't help but feel I've brought this upon myself somewhat. She's right, I should have been ready when I proposed to her. Financially ready, you know. I was just caught up in the moment...I should have waited. And I haven't done anything to help the situation all year long, so I can't blame her for feeling impatient."

"While all of that is very true, Paul, it is still quite a lot for any one person to handle alone."

"Well, it won't be a large affair. Not that I have the time or money to really help that either way, though."

"You'll have some help from me and Richard," she assured him quickly. "Not a substantial amount, but some, of course. And Paul...even if it isn't a terribly large affair, we still want Jane to be happy."

The last sentence sent shivers down his spine. There was an edge of menace to her words, a quiet threat that he was still going to have to make this the dream wedding for their little girl even when he had a maximum of maybe 12 weeks and approximately zero money to pull the whole thing off.

"Of course," he said, terrified.

"Alright," she said, and smiled. It was reminiscent of the piano. "Well, that was all I wanted to speak with you about. I'll let you turn in for the night, Paul. Sleep well."

"Ah, you too, Margaret," he said hoarsely, and walked her to the door. "Talk to you tomorrow morning."

There were, of course, some perks to getting to live for free in his girlfriend's parents' massive townhome, although each and every one of them disappeared from his mind as he stood at the top of the stairs and watched her descend, only daring to breathe out when the top of her perfectly-coiffed grey bun had slipped beneath view. He took a step backwards into his room and shut the door behind him.

He collapsed onto his bed and felt all the air leave his body like a hot air balloon with the flame extinguished. He flopped over on to his back, and crammed his fists into his eye sockets. Bad. Very bad. These were very bad times he was living in. Why the hell had he proposed to her on Christmas Day? When he knew how broke they were, when he knew she wanted to wait? He was the fool, the king of fools, standing lonely and foolish at the top of his hill and looking down at all the silly mistakes he'd made. Jane stared up at him, and just shook her head.

...

The next day proved to be no better. Jane met him with measured indifference at the kitchen table, apparently engrossed in that week's copy of _Gardener's World_ , tugging the ends of her night robe tightly around her and keeping her eyes firmly away from his. At first glance she would have appeared to the world as her usual selfless, cold, and composed self, but he could tell there was something off about her. Her hair was unkempt and her eyes puffy, and he felt sick to his stomach thinking that she may have spent the whole night crying. But still, not quite ready to talk to her yet, though, as he knew she would ask him what venues he'd booked or what florist he was getting, he reached across her to grab his keys from the table and gave her a quick kiss on top of the head.

"Busy day!" he chirped. "I've got to head into the studio early."

"Mm," was Jane's clipped response, which was about as much as he expected. He popped an apple in his mouth and shrugged on his coat on his way out the door, throwing one final glance to Jane, who'd set her magazine down and was looking back towards him. He closed the door on her yearning face; if she wanted to fight, he was more than willing to make this a fight.

He reviewed the mental list he'd began the night before of people to call for wedding help as he walked to work. Typically he tried to catch a bus or take the Tube, but it was a nice morning and he needed the cold air to clear his head. He spent the 45 minute walk to Abbey Road refining said list: _George would know a florist, surely, people from the studio could help with music, Arnie's wife had that bakery..._

His overthinking almost got him hit by a car as he was crossing the road to the studio, and he apologetically threw his hands out and skittered to the sidewalk. The bleating of car horns roused him from the mental pit he'd sunk into, shaking him through before he had to enter the real world once more. Images of weddings were scattered across the flooring of his mind. He shook his head as though it'd rid him of them. He wasn't so sure it worked.

"Hey, Paul. Here early again?"

Freda was sitting in her typical manner at the reception desk, headset firmly affixed atop some sort of strange bun thing and manicured hands managing about three different phone calls and the clunky computer. She smiled at him with genuine care, and he echoed back some weary approximation. She tutted at him.

"Late night?"

"Something like that."

She gestured for him to stop, and he walked up to the edge of her big circular throne. She looked him up and down, tapping her nails on the plastic top and then said, "Oh, boy. You are in quite some shape. Why don't you sit down and talk to me about it?"

"I'd love to, Fred, but I barely have the time."

"First of all, I told you you're not allowed to call me Fred anymore, and second of all, of course you have time. You don't have to be in there for another half hour. So sit down and I'll make you some coffee."

Half-reluctantly, he sat on the edge of her desk as she brewed him some shitty coffee and cajoled him to regale her with the horrid tale of the night before.

"Well, I can't say I blame Jane," she said briskly once he'd stopped talking, pouring his coffee into a mug with the studio's logo emblazoned on it. "But I still...I still don't quite agree with the way she's going about it. It's quite a bit of stress on you. And doesn't she know all the work you're doing on Jimmy's record right now? She must have some idea of how stressful that is for you."

"I haven't told her too much about it," he said gruffly, running a hand through his hair. "Say, you haven't got a comb floating around back here somewhere, do you?"

Freda rolled her eyes and handed him a black comb along with his mug of coffee. He brushed it through his unwashed and semi-matted hair self-consciously, one eye on the door. "Really, Paul, your hair is getting as long as a bird's now. It's almost past your shoulders."

"Keeps the cold out," he replied absently, tossing the comb back at her. "Any idea if Jimmy's coming in today?"

She gave him a look. "You already know the answer to that. And you're changing the subject."

"How am I changing the subject? I want to know if the kid's going to show up to record any of his fucking tracks for once."

"Did Jane tell you a date she wants for the wedding?"

He gulped down about half of the mug, and shook his head. "She just said it has to be before the end of the year."

"It has to be?"

"Well, it's an ultimatum, innit?"

"I guess so. That's still...maybe she'll change her mind once you give her some more time to think things through properly?"

"Jane never changes her mind," he said flatly. "Ever. It's something I used to admire her for. I'm not so sure about that anymore, to be quite honest. It's a bit annoying. I would just like to have a slightly less hard time of it, s'all."

"She has to understand, though," Freda suggested gently.

"I'm really not so sure."

"And the money?"

"Guess I'll be getting another job."

"But that's ridiculous!"

"I don't really have another choice."

"Well-"

"I _want_ to marry her, you understand. There is a reason I proposed in the first place. I love her more than any other girl I've ever gone out with and we've really got something solid and good here together. It's just... _stressful_ , y'know."

"Of course it is! It's a whole bloody wedding."

"Nah, but I'll have some hope helpfully, riiiiight?" he said, putting on puppy-dog eyes and batting his eyelashes at Freda, who in response rolled up her magazine and lobbed it as his head. He cackled and she yelled, "Good riddance, Paul McCartney!", finally shooing him away from her desk.

Paul strolled into the recording studio and took a deep breath, setting his coffee mug down and searching the floor of the studio for his patch cords. It was 10 til they were 'officially' supposed to be there, which meant in actuality that George would be there in 5, the keyboardist would be there in 15, the drummer would roll in probably an hour later, and Jimmy Robbins, the goddamn kid whose _name_ would be on the front of this garbage record, would probably not even show up at all. Paul was just about one more missed rehearsal away from suggesting _he_ do all the bloody vocal takes and they autotune it to sound like Jimmy's pre-pubescent squeal.

Jimmy Robbins, age 20, had the honor and distinction of being the first-ever winner of the ill-fated reality TV show _British Idol_ (no relation to _Pop Idol_ , _The X-Factor_ , or _American Idol_ ), which had of course been cancelled after just two seasons because one of the judges was arrested for second-degree murder. So it goes, you know. As British Idol was contractually tied to Abbey Road Studios, Jimmy's post-win debut album _'Feels Good To Win'_ (seriously) was to be musically resplendent with the session musicians employed full-time at Abbey Road, which, unfortunately, included Paul. And so, every day from 9 to 4 for the past fifteen billion weeks, Paul had contractually played the bass on the godawful pop tracks the Swedish songwriters churned out, all that time having actually met Jimmy maybe a total of three times.

Not quite ready to start fiddling around with any of Jimmy's tracks yet, Paul wandered over to one of the unlocked cabinets and took a guitar down. It was one of the studio's guitars from the 70s, maybe, a really lovely Telecaster with the CuNiFe magnet humbuckers, and holding it brought back pleasant memories of teenage years spent salivating over guitars in magazines and saving up his first paychecks from the deli to buy his first used, scraped-up Fender. Even with all of the shit it brought, recording at Abbey Road was that teenage boy's only dream in life, and he had to let himself take a step back sometimes to find the joy in all of this. Although, he noted with a twinge of poorly-buried resentment, it wasn't like he was here recording his _own_ music, or anything he even considered halfway good. But, still. He was living the dream. Kind of.

He tugged the strap of the Tele over his shoulder and wandered around until he found his favorite guitar amp, plugging in and tuning before he realized he was standing, completely alone, with the world at his feet and a beautiful guitar in his hands, in Abbey Road Studios. Talk about taking a step back to find the joy in all of this. He grinned strangely to himself and ripped into an old Beatles song, the first that his fingers remembered, and felt the noise blank out all else. He shouted the lyrics into the walls, adjusting the volume knob higher and higher with each line, until he was positively screaming "HELTER SKELTER!" into the empty room and attacking the strings with undiluted violence.

Then he stopped. A bitter taste bloomed in his mouth, remembering the boy who had sung that song back in 1991 to a crowded nightclub, his eyes on Paul the whole time, the self-assured way he'd strutted around the stage and the peals of Stuart Sutcliffe's laughter that carried over making Paul's head feel stuffy and burning. He remembered the embarrassment like it was yesterday, sure, but it was the sheer memory of _John_ now that made him feel like he couldn't breathe. He glanced at his watch- three minutes til 9 already- and hurriedly rushed to put the Tele back in its case. So much for the joy of an empty studio, huh? He collapsed onto a stool, exhausted and feeling bereft of everything but stress, and that was how George found him when he walked in a minute later.

"What the hell happened to you, man?" he laughed, punching his shoulder affectionately. "Really, are you okay? You look like roadkill."

"Jane gave me an ultimatum," he said, pulling his head out of his hands.

"Wait- what? Are you serious?"

"At her party last night," he said, nodding quickly. "At her party last night, she told me that I needed to marry her by the end of the year or we're toast."

George, still holding all his bags, stood with his mouth hanging open, looking around completely flabbergasted, before shaking his head. "I don't- she really did that? That's...I mean it doesn't sound like her, but..." Still evidently at a loss for words, he pulled a stool up to sit across from Paul. "I knew I should have come to this party, man!"

"I'm sure Pattie would have appreciated that," he responded grimly.

"Yeah, yeah. She could have hobbled along on her broken leg, I told her that. But my God! Jane really told you that?"

"Yes."

"Is she...is she serious?"

"Of course she is, George!" he half-shouted. "She's always serious! And she never changes her bloody mind!"

"Well you can't do it, can you?"

"What are you talking about? Of course I'm going to marry her. I proposed to her, didn't I?"

"But by the end of the year?"

"I have to."

George sighed and moved to fiddle with his guitar bag. He was shaking his head gently, clearly traveling deeper into the recesses of his sensibilities to try and think through some solution for Paul. He was one of the best people he knew, for that: genuinely thoughtful and sensitive, Paul knew he would have some sort of plan for him by the end of the day's recording studio. Already that trademark pensive look had settled into the lines of his face, making him look much, much older than 25, the drawing together of his eyebrows and the firming of his lips. He'd always been like this, even back in Liverpool where he'd first met him. Paul, strangely overwhelmed with love for his best friend's care, forced himself to break away and start setting his bass up.

The keyboardist, Neil Jacobson, breezed into the studio a few minutes later, bringing news that Jimmy was supposedly going to come into record some vocal takes that day. Paul couldn't even try to contain laughter at that one, but the others were seemingly hopeful. As the various engineers and producers filed into the recording booth, George went over to bug them about the supposed Rapture of Jimmy Robbins, as they had taken to calling it. George Martin, the head producer of the album, seemed especially perturbed that morning as he listened to recordings from past sessions, which gave Paul half the mind to think Jimmy might actually have been showing up.

Once the drummer, Arnie Cabot, had rolled in, they began to rehearse lightly. George M walked ruminatively around the studio as they played some rubbish, tutting to himself, before finally announcing that Jimmy was coming in to record his vocal takes.

"He's only going to be here for two hours," he explained, exhaustion apparent in his voice. "So I expect- I _know_ you will all behave professionally and efficiently, because we need to record as much as possible. The label is saying now they want to do this all in live takes." He buried his face in his hands for a moment, then popped back up again. "Which is...ridiculous, I know, but this is what they want. They want the album to have an, erm, organic sound, I think is what the EMI fellow said...anyway, this is just what we have to deal with."

The four of them nodded solemnly, idly fiddling with their instruments as he continued in his stern advisements.

"Alright. Thank you. We're going to try and do the first four tracks on the album today. _Without You, Loving You, You Make Me Happy, If I Didn't Have You_..."

"Er, George?"

"Yes, Arnie?"

"Are those joke titles?"

Everyone in the room started snickering, and George M just sighed and raised a hand to his temple. "Very funny, haha, no they are not." He wrung his hands out. "This is what I was talking about with _professionalism_ , boys."

"It just seems strange that every single one of them is in the second person. Who is this 'you' person that Jimmy's always singing to?"

"I bet it's God."

"It's not God. Didn't you see what he said on the Today Show? The label threw a fit."

"No, I didn't. What did he-"

"Alright, downbeat is in 10," George yelled, waving his arms. "Get set up, we're working with limited time here, yes?"

They all echoed back a dull yes, shifting in their seats and fidgeting, tuning a wonky G string and tightening the screws on the snare and moving the pedals out and adjusting the microphone stands, etc. etc. Paul sunk depressedly into his stool, kicking his mic stand, Jane's words quietly drifting circles in his mind. Not too far behind her was the unreadable smile of one John Lennon, 20 years old and promising little Paulie that of course he'd call, of course he'd call. Paul felt all the breath in his body escape him, and he had to inhale sharply through his teeth and wiggle a bit to bring himself back into time.

There wasn't much to do until Jimmy decided to show up, considering they were supposed to be recording with him, whoever's insane idea that was, so George came over and sat with him by the bass amp to further discuss the Jane situation.

"Has she made any sign that she was going to do this before last night?"

"What, you mean give me an ultimatum? No, no she hadn't. I mean, maybe she did and I just didn't notice. It's already been well-established that I'm failing in my duties as boyfriend to _the_ Jane Asher," he laughed sharply, and ran a hand over his face. "Man...I just don't know. I really don't know what I'm going to do."

"Have you started looking at any venues yet? You should probably get that squared away before anything else."

"No, no."

"Do you have any ideas?"

"No," he said uncomfortably, scratching behind his ear. "Not a clue. Do you know any places?"

George leaned back, looking up for a moment. "Hmm...possibly. I'm sure Pattie does." Then he scooted closer to Paul, to place a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. It would have felt cloyingly patronizing from anyone else, but he knew it came from a place of genuine care. "Listen, Paul."

"Yes?"

"You know, you're not going to go through this alone. We're all here. Me and Pattie will help out, finding places and whatnot, and no matter what Jane says, she's still going to be involved in all the decisions, you know how she is."

"It's not that that I'm worried about," he said, unsmiling. "It's the money. I have _no money_ ," he said, jabbing his finger on his thigh for emphasis. "Jane has _no money_. How the- I mean, what am I going to do? Get a second job? Get a goddamn loan? It's ridiculous."

"Haven't her parents got money?"

"Not enough that they can give to us! And did I tell you? Her mother came up to talk to me last night when I was trying to go to bed, and gave me this whole forbidding speech about how I've got to make this the most special day for their little girl even when she _knows_ I haven't got the money or time for it. It's _awful_!" he moaned, collapsing back into himself, and George patted him on the back again.

"It's alright, Paul, it really is. Just think, by the end of the year you'll either be married or you won't."

" _Or_ I'll be in crippling debt."

"What about your aunt and uncle? From Liverpool? They've got money."

He sat straight up, thinking for a moment. "You're right. I hadn't thought of them. Well, they can't give a lot, but-"

"Anything will help."

"You're right, you're right."

"And your da will give some, right?"

He laughed. " _Some_ , yeah."

George laughed too, and for a moment he felt marginally, slightly better than he did before, which is always the best place to start. And then, before the existential dread could set in again, the doors to the studio blew right open and they were suddenly at the behest of the Rapture of Jimmy Robbins.

Jimmy Robbins, despite being only 5'6, seemed to consume the entire door frame he stood in. He was wearing a denim jacket over jeans and a white polo shirt with some unidentifiable stains on it, eyes hidden behind oversized, Elton John-esque sunglasses. His nearly-white hair was sticking straight up off his head like a hedgehog's, and he looked sunburnt. There were three or four people in his entourage who moved in tandem with his motions, like automatons, each laden with massive bags that had god knows what in them. He cleared his throat and took a step forward.

"Hullo," he said, and he sounded like a little boy. George M walked up to embrace the man, clapping him on the back with a tight smile that looked something like a grimace.

"Jimmy!" he exclaimed. "It's good to see you."

"Yes, hello," Jimmy repeated, turning awkwardly to assess the room. Paul rolled his eyes and kept his focus on the bass, running his fingernail against the threading of the strings and making a dreadful noise. "Um...what song do you want me to sing?"

"Why don't we get you set up with a mic first, Jimmy?" George said, leading him towards an open mic stand that stood in the center of the room. His entourage trudged behind him, still lugging the bags. Freda appeared a few seconds later and was quickly showing them where they could sit and wait. Without them, Jimmy seemed even smaller, and tapped at the mic like a bored little boy.

"Don't know when George turned into a babysitter," Neil huffed, crossing his arms.

"He just wants the record to not be shite."

"Well, yeah, otherwise he's gonna get canned. You know they already did that to those two other engineers, it's only a matter of-"

"Alright, start with 'Without You'," a voice said from the sound room, and so they began the most horrible recording session of Paul's career. Although, really, he was only there physically; mentally he was stuck on that stage in 1991, 14 years old and red in the face and feeling left to rot by all the people who were supposed to care about him.

...

He got home close to 5, utterly depleted and sweaty from running to catch the tube, and made it only as far as the dining table before collapsing. For what had felt like hours of work in the studio, he was basically convinced that none of it was even close to usable. Jimmy's vocals were completely shot, ruining nearly every live take they did, which of course was all the label fucking wanted to use. He took out a pocket notebook from his messenger bag and began scribbling notes to himself, chords from some of the less awful of Jimmy's songs, wondering how much they would let him rework. Forgetting the lyrical garbage of the album, it needed a complete structural upheaval, something he was willing to work on if it meant it would keep his bloody mind off wedding planning for even one evening.

As if his life was some universal joke, Jane walked into the room not even a minute later, followed by two agents. One of them he knew, Nina, and she smiled pleasantly at him.

"How are you, Paul?"

Usually one always up for some genial small talk, he really just could not find it in himself today to even attempt a conversation, and instead just sort of grimaced and waved. Out the corner of his eye, he could sense that Jane was watching him, but knew she wouldn't do anything in front of her management people.

"You work at Abbey Road Studios, still, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," he said, snapping his notebook shut. "We're recording Jimmy Robbins' album right now, actually."

"Oh, wow, the Pop Idol kid?"

"British Idol, mm. So, if you hear any of his tunes on the radio in the next few months, that's me playing the bass."

"Huh," she said, placing her hand on the table and clearly lost in thought. Jane's other agent was staring at her, obviously waiting on her for whatever urgent business needed attending to. Jane seemed equally impatient, lips folded in a thin line and tapping her foot. "Say, Paul, have you got an agent? There's a new transfer at our firm that I could hook you up with. He works with a lot of music people. Actually," she said, snorting. "He'll be working with your fiancee here soon."

"He's replacing me," the other agent said flatly.

"Mm," Paul said.

"I'll give you his info, yeah? I mean, you'll meet him soon anyway I'm sure, but maybe you want to give him a call before then. Start working on something more than ex-British Idol singers, haha?" Nina said, laughing falsely and rooting around in her enormous bag a moment before retrieving pen and paper. She scribbled something on it and then gave it to Paul. "Alright, see you around, Paul, ta."

"Bye, Nina. Jane," he said, curtly, and Jane avoided his gaze but nodded, small though it was.

He waited until they had gone out the door before he picked up the piece of yellow stationery that Nina had written on. His mind comprehended the name and the number at the same time, something not clicking in his brain a moment before the letters fit together and he realized what exactly it was he was reading. When realization did hit him, it was with a cold and growing dread, his breath stuck in his throat and still unbelieving.

 _020-3461-5552_ , she'd written.

_Call John Lennon._


	8. I'm Looking Through You

Thinking really never did him any good. At least that was how it was beginning to feel, as he sat by the window at 3am, head lolling against the glass and staring blankly out at the city that had taken so much out of him. He was thinking about how John was out there somewhere, one amongst those million blinking lights, sleeping under the big sky and completely unaware that Paul was thinking of him once more. He clenched the yellow paper in his hands, folded and creased from hours of fiddling with it. _Call John Lennon_. No fucking kidding. Those three words were responsible for the slow unraveling of his psyche, the three words that taunted him every time he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

He sighed, blew hot air on the window until it fogged up. His finger lazily traced a smiley face there, then drew an X over each eye. Did John know that he still lived here? Did he know that Jane was his girlfriend? Did he know they were going to meet again?

There was no way. It was all coincidence; horrible, life-ruining coincidence, but coincidence nonetheless. He remembered John telling him back in '94 that he was going into media management. It was only logical that by now he would have been promoted to whatever fancy position at a London firm, and be in charge of clients like Jane. Only logical, and yet it felt too awful to be true. Awful? Perhaps. He couldn't lie and say there wasn't a part of him that wasn't absolutely terrifyingly thrilled that he was going to get to see John again, but that was maybe 1% of him, and the rest was in complete agreement that this was only going to have negative effects on his life.

John was going to be working for Jane. Dear God.

There was a chance, really, that John might not even remember him. That was one thought he'd had in college: maybe John just had amnesia. Obviously not actual amnesia, but maybe some sort of selective thing. Although the thought that John had actively chosen to forget about him hurt a hell of a lot fucking more than anything else. And would they even be put in the situation where they would see each other? Not likely. He saw some of Jane's media people, but it wasn't like he ever _had_ to talk to any of them. Just the ones that came to visit the house.

God. There was a chance that John could be _in his house._

He stood up quickly and began pacing. Obviously he'd have to tell Jane that he knew John. Did he have to? Maybe it would only make it more awkward in the long run. Suddenly the teenage words of John came back to him, biting and cruel; something mocking Paul for thinking they would ever live next door to each other in London and have dinner parties and carpool together, something that he specifically remembered ending with him asking what he thought they were.

 _Jokes on you, asshole,_ he thought, looking out the window once more. His fingers trembled slightly though, still clutching the piece of yellow paper, and he threw it to the floor bitterly.

But still, he realized, there was something dramatically ironic about the whole situation that he had to appreciate with some forced perspective. Paul had spent the entirety of his adult life waiting for a phone call from this man, had spent years obsessing over and wondering when it might come, and now, just when he thought he was starting to get over John, he'd just _fallen_ into his life. And now Paul was the one with the power, the phone number.

With a dizzy head, he crouched down and picked the paper up again, smoothing the wrinkles out on his trouser leg. He mouthed the numbers to himself, nibbling his fingernails, then stood up promptly and walked to the phone. He picked up the receiver and gently cradled it between shoulder and chin, unfolding the yellow paper. His fingers tripped across the keypad without much thought at all, much like playing the piano again, performing the set of 11 numbers he nearly already had memorized. There was a moment of pause before he hit the call button, this strange moment where he was outside his body looking down at the pathetic spectacle he was making of himself, calling some old friend at 3 o'clock in the morning when he was surely to be asleep, but then all else suddenly fell away and it was just John's dimly lit, smiling face, telling him to just do it.

So, he called. The dial intoned 4 or 5 times, Paul waiting breathlessly, before it went to voicemail. He was about to hang up, feeling an utter fool and desperately needy, standing there clutching at the phone like it was a life raft, when the voicemail message played.

_Hello, this is John Lennon of Arnold-Woodall Relations. You know what to do. Ta._

Paul slammed the receiver down before he had the chance to make even more of a fool out of himself, and took a step back. What was he _doing_? He was a 26-year-old man, he was _engaged_ , he wasn't a bloody teenage girl with a crush. He tried to ignore the lump in his throat that had realized itself upon hearing John's smart, taunting voice for the first time in nine years, because that was certainly not very un-teenaged of him.

This, of course, pinchingly reminded him that he really needed to be getting on with repairing relations with Jane and getting a start on this whole wedding planning situation. There was no point in putting any of it off. It was inevitable, just as George had said; he would either be married by the end of the year, or he wouldn't. And damn it all if he wasn't going to be married by the end of the year, he was sure of it. He looked back to the clock. Half past three. Still much too early to go and talk to Jane. Tomorrow, he resolved, he'd take her to lunch. No more of this teenaged bickering, this tired distancing routine: she was his bloody fiancee! Yes, he'd take her out to lunch at that Indian place by Abbey Road that she loved, and there they would have a real, honest, reasonable discussion about the whole affair, and come to some sort of peace settlement. He'd never felt more resolved in his life.

The phone sat accusingly in the corner of the room, taunting him in his fake-resolve, and he lobbed a pillow at it.

...

"Consider this a re-proposal of sorts."

Paul was sitting across from Jane, hands clasping hers, in her favorite Indian restaurant. She was frowning, mouth half-full of saag paneer, and she swallowed awkwardly before asking if he would please repeat that for her.

"I'm proposing to you again, Jane," he said, eyes crinkled and smiling widely. "Because this time I am very serious about it."

"Oh," she said, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. He could tell she was feigning indifference, but could see the corners of a small smile revealing themselves. "Well, that is very thoughtful."

"I've absolutely hated this," he admitted. "I've _hated_ it. I hate not talking to you Jane, you know that? It's all I want to do. These past few days have been hell. I don't want us to be fighting." He moved his hand further upwards, to caress the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. She gave him a soft, unreadable look. "I've _missed_ you."

"I've missed you, too," she murmured.

"So this is my re-proposal, love." He cleared his throat, speaking slightly louder. "Jane Asher, will you agree to marry me?" he said, then added cockily, "Again?"

A bashful smile overtook her face that time, perhaps against her own will, and she covered her mouth her hand and giggled. "Oh, Paul. Yes. Of course, love. That's all I've wanted to hear you say for this past year."

"Good," he said, and leaned across the table to kiss her, a bit demurely after days of no intimacy and what felt like an entire Indian restaurant watching them. "Just think, love," he started, beginning to feel melancholic. "In just a few months this'll all be impossible for us."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, you'll be a famous TV star, we won't be able to go out in public to just anywhere...there'll be hordes of paparazzi waiting for you at every turn."

"You're daft," she said, laughing. "Although, a girl can only dream."

"Yes, she can. And she should, as it shall happen!"

"You'll have to be there to protect me," she said, voice lowering teasingly, foot suddenly curled around his leg, and he felt his cock throb, very much realizing how many days it had been since they'd done anything. He was instantly quite ready to settle this bill and go home.

"Ah, yes, your big strong husband," he said, stroking up her arm further and further absentmindedly. "Say, love, you think I should call off work for the afternoon? I think I should. We should- ah, we should go home, don't you think?"

"So we can discuss wedding plans?" Jane asked, the slightest of smirks on her face, and he felt himself collapse.

"Haha. Well... _yes_ , but also-"

"Your check, sir?" the waiter said, ill-timed, and he grumblingly smiled and went through the whole routine of paying and whatnot, internally dreading and wondering if Jane really did just want to go home and discuss wedding planning, because dear God he did not think he'd survive another day if she did that to him...

One quick phone call to Abbey Road feigning a sudden bout of illness and a tube ride later, they were back home, striding up the grand steps of the townhome arm-in-arm like school sweethearts, as though nothing had happened at all. It really did feel like a reengagement; there was something more joyous and real about it now, now that he felt more clearcut and certain in his knowledge that he was to marry this girl, and of course with the added bonus of winning her back once more.

This brief peace was swiftly axed, though, because when could something good ever _stay_ good for him, right?

"Jane, love, one of your agents called while you were out," Jane's mother said, standing in the living room wringing her thin hands. "He said he needed to talk to you, review some important documents before the end of the workday. He said he'd be swinging by here around 1."

"Oh, well, alright," Jane said, shaking her head. She turned to Paul with an apologetic smile. "It feels like all I've been doing lately is meeting after meeting," she huffed. "I barely remember the last time I was actually acting."

Unfortunately, something about Jane's agent swinging by was still not quite clicking in his head as to who that may be, and Paul, blissfully single-minded at the moment, stood closer to Jane and rested his hand at her nape affectionately, petting her hair. "Maybe you can get rid of him when he gets here, and we can have some alone time," he said, voice hushed, and delighted in seeing Jane blush. As he often told her, it suited her hair very prettily when she blushed like that.

" _Paul_ ," she said, pushing him back a bit, but still not really saying anything against it. He grinned coyly and walked further into the living room, shedding his sports coat and tossing it over the back of the sofa. He then loosened his tie, staring Jane down, and maintained his smile. She was blushing even harder. So it was, of course, at this moment that the doorbell had to ring.

"It it really one o'clock already?" Jane's mother wandered loudly from the kitchen. "Jane, better get that, dear."

Jane, smoothing her hair back, walking briskly to the door. She peered out the glass first before smiling and opening it, exclaiming, "Hello, John, it's so good to see you again! Come in, come sit down."

Paul stood paralyzed in the middle of the living room, arms hanging limp by his sides. This felt like a dream. Or, more accurately, some sort of perverted nightmare. The door swung open, and suddenly, as though he'd just been waiting to materialize there, was John goddamn Lennon.

"Ms. Asher, I'm sorry for the late notice," he said, seemingly unaware of Paul's presence as of yet. He was smiling kindly at Jane, and even seemed a bit flustered, if Paul was seeing straight. His knees were feeling a bit wobbly, and he found himself taking several steps back before, horrifyingly, hearing Jane say his name.

"Paul?" she said, and waved him over. "Paul, here."

For just one instant John's eyes met his, and he felt the most sickening bolt of electricity shoot through his body. John's eyes, those same eyes that had lived in his memories since he was 14, widened in terror, then fell back again to Jane.

"Oh- I, uh- is this-?" he sputtered, clearly just as at a loss for words as Paul was.

"This is Paul, my boyfriend," Jane said, pulling him closer to her side, and dazedly, out-of-body, Paul felt his hand rising for a limp handshake. _Nearly ten years, and now his hand is in mine again_ , he thought dimly.

"Hello, Paul," he murmured, and Paul thought he might throw up. "Nice to, uh...meet you."

Paul, unable to form coherent sentences, let alone words, nodded dumbly.

"Alright, so what was it we needed to look at?" Jane said, arm uncurling from around Paul. John's eyes shuttered confusedly between him and Jane, and he could tell he was failing to properly understand what was happening. He couldn't blame him. Of course, Paul had kind of known that this kind of meeting was inevitable in happening, although he just didn't think it'd be so soon. John would have had no bloody _clue_ what any of this was.

"Er...oh, yes, Jane, _yes_ , er, I just need you to sign something you forgot to at the meeting yesterday, er, here, can we sit down?"

"Oh, yes, of course, here, follow me," Jane chirped, leading him to the dining room table. Paul, frightfully unsure of what to do, was dragged along via arm by Jane to sit beside her, arms still interlocked. His head felt stuffy, and all that happened felt as though it was happening on TV, and he was merely stuck watching. Jane's mother bustled in and out, bringing drinks, and he felt his eyes get glued to John as the man pleasantly accepted a cup of tea.

John looked quite different than the last time he'd seen him. His hair was less shabby, for one, although he supposed that was to be expected when one moved from the world of teenaged rock bands to that of properly adult media management. He also seemed much more well-fed; not that he was _fat_ , but back in '94 he'd seemed to be getting frightfully thin; now his face was fuller and his shoulders broader in a way that made Paul's mouth feel a bit dry. The harshness and cruelty that had sometimes inhibited John's sharp features was almost entirely gone; there was something bashful, kind, gentle in his expression as he talked to Jane, a certain softness that Paul had rarely gotten to see, especially as a younger teenager. He looked... _happy_. Like really, genuinely happy.

Of course this only wanted to make Paul curl into a ball and die _more_ , as it goes.

"Well, that should be all, Ms. Asher," John said absently, stacking all the documents that had been spread across the table and putting them back in his briefcase. Not even trying to, Paul found his vision stuck on pale, nimble fingers, fingers that had used to fumblingly play the guitar in his aunt's backyard, fingers that would brush across his with a goofy smile. He suddenly felt as though he couldn't breathe, and stood up abruptly.

"Excuse me for a moment," he mumbled, walking briskly out of the dining room. He could hear Jane behind him say something, but did not stop; his chest was rising and falling uncontrollably, vision blurry, hands trembling as he grasped desperately for the doorknob to his room. Once inside, he collapsed at the foot of the door and buried his face in his hands. Too much, too soon. He'd sat just across the table from John, and John had acted like he'd never bloody met him. Maybe to him, he _hadn't_ , not really. It was true that they'd only known each other for a handful of weeks, twelve- twelve!- goddamn years ago, and even then it wasn't as though John had been terribly fond of him, if he was being honest with himself, so he could sort of think that, yes, maybe, John really kind of didn't remember him.

But still there was that part of him screaming for recognition, the part of him that was still 14 years old and only cared what John Lennon thought about him. And now here he was, hiding in his bedroom like a coward, head in his hands and near on the verge of goddamn tears, acting like a little kid all over again. A memory hit him with the force of a freight train: 6 years old, hiding in the dark cupboard with his knees up to his chest and scarcely breathing, 20 minutes passing and then beginning to cry for his mum when she still hadn't found him. She'd laughed at him, scooped him up out of the cupboard and told him he didn't understand the point of the game yet, but that terror- that need to be _found_ , to be recognized- had stayed with him. He sat shaking in this empty room and wished that someone could find him, would scoop him up and tell him it was all going to be okay.

Life doesn't work like that, though.

And so he stood to a wobbling stand, composed himself, and walked back out.

Jane was sitting on the couch, alone, when he returned. She was lazily flipping through TV channels, and smiled at him worriedly. "Are you alright, love?" she asked, gesturing for him to sit on the couch beside her. He did as much, sighing and plopping his feet up on the coffee table.

"Yes," he said, shirtily, and scratched at his beard. "All the paperwork reminded me that I needed to call George Martin about some important stuff. With the new album, you know. Something I forgot to deal with before I called off work." He glanced around. "So, er...did that agent fellow of yours leave already?"

"John? Yes, he did. I really just had to sign that one form. He was worried about you, actually, and said he'd wished you'd stayed so he could talk to you. I told him that Nina had given him your number. He wants to talk to you about your music."

Paul, breathing arrhythmically again, could only offer up an, "Oh?"

"Yes, I told him you work at Abbey Roads. He thinks it's all very exciting; thinks he can get some good opportunities for you."

"Mm," he said, clenching his fists at his sides. "Well, I'm quite happy there, so I'm not so sure there's anything he could do for me."

"What are you talking about?" Jane laughed. "You hate it there. You're always talking about it, especially now that they're forcing you to work on that kid's album because of that contract you signed last year."

"Yeah, but..." he trailed off, unsure of how to just tell Jane that the last thing in the entire goddamn universe he needed was a one-on-one business meeting with Mr. Lennon. "But George is there, and- and I mean, with the wedding coming up, y'know, I need a stable source of income."

She frowned. "But I'm sure even just a meeting with him might help, maybe? So you could get an idea of some opportunities?" She took his hand in hers, squeezing it. "Especially if you want to start recording your own music."

"That's- that's not really viable," he said awkwardly. "Hey! Listen. Why don't we start working on some wedding planning?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You really don't want to talk about this, do you?"

He internally cursed her perceptiveness, and shook his head quickly. "No. No! No, I just, er, now that I've mentioned the wedding it's all I want to be working on, so...yes. Let's talk about the wedding."

"Well, okay," she said, shrugging. "Fine by me."

Paul sighed. Another problem for another day.

...

That other day proved to be much sooner than he'd hoped. Not even a week later, Jane insisted on bringing him along to a meeting at the office of her agency. Her show- _The Pretty Things_ \- was premiering the next night, and there was much anticipation and hooplah to be had in preparation for the big premiere party. Apparently this involved dragging along fiancés with nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon. He was incredibly reluctant, although he was still doing his best at trying not to show that to Jane, as it would only make her ask more questions, but the thought of having to see John again made his stomach clench.

They arrived at the posh downtown offices of Arnold-Woodall Relations half past two, ushered into a special parking lot for clientele only, which admittedly made him feel quite upper-crust, even if it was all on the coattails of his fiancee's clout. From there they went to Nina's office, who greeted them with a bottle of cheapish champagne and a huge, plastered smile.

"My favorite client and my favorite fiancé of a client!" she purred, leading them in and seating them across from her, giving them each a plastic flute of the champagne. It was not very good, and Paul set it down on the edge of Nina's desk, hoping he didn't seem rude. She was barely paying attention to him, though, as was to be expected. "Jane, love, people are positively buzzing about the premiere."

"Really?" she said, bashfully excited, looking over to Paul with a big smile. "Do they have ratings predictions?"

"Well, we were really lucky to get such a good time slot, you know, 8 on a Friday is not bad at all for a new show with a new actress, and the network is releasing some early projections, and..."

Paul, bored out of his mind, let his gaze drift away from Nina's lacquered face and affected gesticulations, concentrating instead on her bookshelf. Lots of self-help, business, motivation books. He gagged internally and kept looking. The door was ajar, open to the smart, modern offices, with their open-floor plans and lots of hanging plants, all specially engineered to make this aging firm seem more hip. Christ, he needed to give the negativity a break. He was going to make himself old before his time. He was just about to try and think of something positive when, as though he were a ghost, the face of John Lennon poked around the doorway. Paul jerked backwards; Jane looked over, frowning, then saw John and smiled.

"Lennon!" Nina exclaimed. "Come in, come in, I was just debriefing Jane on the projections for tomorrow night."

John stepped into the office, all business-like, with a grey suit and tie; it was about as a far a cry as he could have gotten from the teenage boy who used to wear the same baggy, faded jeans every day of the week and flannel shirts that reeked of cigarette smoke. A pang realized itself in Paul's chest, thinking about that John he had known; it was quickly replaced by irritation upon looking at his face, reminding himself, _never even a single bloody phone call._

"Ah, yes, I wanted to talk to you about that, Jane," John said, sitting on the edge of Nina's desk and clasping his hands together. "The latest projections are quite...well, they're not what we were originally hoping for. They're saying now that we're only going to get about three viewers. Pity, innit?"

Jane stared blankly, and Nina bellowed out a laugh.

"Ah! That's the classic Lennon wit that I've been loving!"

"Oh, it was a jo-"

"Just joking, Jane," he said with a wink, and Paul had never hated him more than in that moment, truth be told. He hated him for being so easily goddamn charming, knowing full well what a prick he really was.

"Oh!" Jane said relievedly, releasing the tension in her shoulders and laughing awkwardly, grasping Paul's hand harder. If he could trust his eyes, Paul could have sworn that he saw John's own gaze narrow at their interlocked hands, but he quickly brushed it off.

"The projections are good," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You've got nothing to worry about Jane. By this time next week, you're going to be one of the most talked-about actresses in England."

"You know, I was _worried_ at first when they transferred this guy here," Nina said, pouring herself more champagne. "I told you that, Jane, didn't I? I was like, who do they think they are, transferring some guy from the Liverpool branch down here right before the premiere of Jane's show? But I had nothing to worry about. _We_ had nothing to worry about, Jane, right?"

"Right," Jane echoed.

"Just doing my job," John said strangely. His mind was wandering; Paul could tell, he could still read the boy like a book, could sense that he was growing bored as well. Sure enough, the next words out of his mouth were, "Hello again, Paul."

Well. That was not quite what he'd been expecting. Nina and Jane were staring at him; he smiled painfully and gave a hoarse hello to John.

"I was sorry to have to go yesterday without saying a proper goodbye," he continued, eyes shining and narrowed in on Paul with a force that was affecting his breathing.

"Isn't Paul the best?" Nina crooned. "Jane, you've told John all about our Paul, haven't you?"

"She mentioned you work at Abbey Road Studios, don't you?" he said, leaning in closer.

"Er...yes," he said.

"Did Nina give you my number? I'd love to get in touch with you. I actually represent more musicians than I do actors."

There was a bitter, tempting moment where Paul was just about ready to blurt out, _Are you sure you don't already have my number, Johnny?_ but, always one to avoid confrontation and awkward conversations with girlfriends about certain men, he bit his tongue and nodded.

"Mm, yes, she did, but I don't really see any good that could come from me calling you," he said flatly. _Ouch_. John looked a bit taken aback; maybe he'd been too obvious. But then he just shook it off again.

"I'm sure we'd be able to work something out," he said, lowering his head, before snapping back up in a clearly forced smile. "Welp! I must be off. Lovely to see you Jane, I'll be there at the premiere party tomorrow night. I can't wait to talk to you two again!"

"You're bringing Cynthia and Julian, right?" Nina asked. John paled a bit, and licked his lips slowly. Paul, wanting to die, ducked his head. _Cynthia and Julian_. John's family, the family he'd never been privy to. _Never even a goddamn phone call_ , he reminded himself harshly.

"Er, yeah, of course," he said dismissively. "Alright! Must be off. See you two soon." And with that he was gone, again.

"He's just the best," Nina said, sighing. "He's such a wunderkind. Really, Paul, you should give him a call, you know he basically singlehandedly kickstarted Robbie Williams solo career?"

"Well, seeing as Robbie Williams and I are about as far apart as you can get, I'm not sure he could do so much for me," he said, carefully. Nina just laughed.

"You really crack me up sometimes, Paul. So, Jane. Back to business. I was thinking that for the premiere of episode two..."

Once again, Paul felt himself disengage. Christ, had he been too obvious? He didn't think so; he doubted Nina would ever notice anything like that, and Jane had suitably been distracted enough. John had known, though. There couldn't really have been any doubt now, about John having selective amnesia or any bullshit like that; he clearly remembered Paul, but the thing that pissed him off the most now was that it seemed like John was still trying to be the good guy. _He_ was the one telling Paul to call _him_ , as though Paul was the reason they hadn't talked in a decade. Bitterly, he reminded himself that it was the same thing he'd done last time, trying to claim that Paul's sensitivity and genuine hurt over his treatment of him was what had frayed their relationship, and not the fact that John had been the asshole in the first place. It was all this convoluted, completely mental gaslighting, but Paul was no longer the stupid teenager that thought John could do wrong. He knew now that there was no chance of salvaging a relationship between them, and that had almost singlehandedly been because of John.

"Paul?" Jane said, and snapped him out of the mental pit he'd tripped into.

"Oh- er, yes?"

"Do you agree?"

He stared blankly at her, then twisted his face up. "Um...yes?"

"So you don't think I should change my surname when we get married?"

"Oh," he said, mind desperately for something proper to say. He scoffed. "I mean, we've still got some time, and- I mean, that's your decision to make, love, er, I mean that's up to you."

"Well, yes, of course," she said. "But what is your opinion?"

He continued staring blankly between her and Nina. "I mean...maybe we can talk about this later?" Flustered, seeing Jane's less than happy response to that, he corrected, "Well, because right now you should just be worrying about the premiere. It is tomorrow, after all."

"He's got a good point," Nina agreed, and he sighed. "Really, Jane, we'll have plenty time to think about all that coming soon. Have you two set a date yet?"

"Before the end of the year," Jane said firmly.

"Yes, that's good," Nina said, nodding her head. "That'll be good. Maybe near Christmas. Yes! That'll be brilliant. You'll be cresting in popularity at that moment, and then a big, lavish, fancy wedding will be just what the media will love."

"Big, lavish, fancy?" Paul repeated, terrified. Nina laughed again.

"Well, of course, Paul! This girl of yours is a goddamn princess, we're going to give her the total princess treatment."

There were instances that Nina's brash Americanness really put Paul off, and now was just about example A of all time for that. In many cases he thought it made her a better agent; she had that stupid, headstrong, forward attitude that never saw any roadblocks between her and what she wanted for her clients, and she was wonderful at securing opportunities for them that lesser agents may have been too lily-livered or lazy to search out. But then, of course, there were the times when she was quite obnoxious in her attitudes towards people, as though they were little more to her than toys in a sandbox. It was at that particular moment that Paul felt quite like something left behind in a sandbox.

"Well," he began, mumbling a bit, "I don't know if Jane's said much to you, but it's just- money is a bit tight right now-"

"Tight?" Nina said, frowning. "Hon, don't you know how much money Jane is going to get from this show? You'll be fine."

Paul, blubbering, looked at over at Jane, who was sort of apologetically shrugging. Of course- how could he have forgotten all the money that she would be getting from this blasted TV show? He almost felt like crying, he was so relieved. Here he'd been, spending all this time terribly worried that they wouldn't be able to afford anything, when she had such a big check coming in!

"Right!" he managed. "That's- yes, of course! Brilliant!"

Jane smiled at him, and for a moment, he felt better; then, in the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of grey suit and auburn hair walking briskly past Nina's doorway, and his heart immediately sank again.

He really couldn't let him have the good things, could he?

...

Later that night, tired, tipsy, and a bit lonely with Jane out for a pre-celebratory dinner with her girlfriends, Paul rang George up and asked if it was alright if he came round for a drink or two. George was more than happy for the company; his girlfriend, Pattie, was recuperating at home with a broken leg, and Paul could sense that the constant togetherness was beginning to stress both of them out a bit. The chance to entertain a guest was probably a welcome boon from night after night redressing wounds and sitting in front of the telly.

George greeted him at the door with a big hug, then lead him into the kitchen. George and Pattie's little townhouse was just about one of Paul's favorite places in all of London. It felt homey and cozy in a way that Jane's parents' house never did; the walls were brightly colored, with stacks of books everywhere and guitars and houseplants. There was a sense of relaxed unconsciousness that was not present in the Asher home. No one cared or thought about the placement of every little aspect of the home. Art was placed on the walls if they liked it, magazines were left strewn about, and you didn't have to take your shoes off. George was also a fantastic cook, so it always smelled wonderful. Paul was happy to be back, especially in his time of emotional fragility.

"Is that Paul?" Pattie shouted from the next room over.

"Hi, Pattie!" he called, leaving a bottle of wine on the kitchen island and wandering into the living room. Pattie craned her neck over the top of a massive armchair, and her face burst out into a beautiful toothy grin.

"Oh, god, it's so good to see you, Paul!" she cried, pulling him into a hug. "I've been going insane stuck here. I've missed you all so much."

"George's company getting a little old, eh?" he snorted, patting her on the shoulder affectionately. George and Pattie had been together longer than Paul and Jane had, and the two of them had come to feel much more akin to family than anything.

"Yes, I just know she's going to walk out on me," George quipped, walking in from the kitchen with a charcuterie plate, the bottle of wine Paul had brought over, and three glasses. He carefully set them down on the coffee table and leaned over to kiss Pattie on the head. "It's funny because you can't walk, d'ya geddit?"

"I'm going to lob my crutch at you."

"As though it'd be the first time!"

Paul plopped down on the couch, George sitting beside him, and put his feet up on the coffee table. He threw a piece of cheese in his mouth and started pouring himself a generous glass of the wine.

"Paul, I hadn't gotten the chance to talk to you- George told me about Jane, I'm so sorry," Pattie said, hands wringing nervously.

"Oh," he said, taking a sip and grimacing. "Well. That's sort of begun to sort itself out."

"Really?" George said, clearly surprised.

"Mm, yes, I was sort of...well, I was sort of overreacting from the beginning, honestly, but-"

"But she gave you an ultimatum!" Pattie protested. "It's all a bit ridiculous, if I say so myself. You only got engaged last Christmas."

"Exactly," George agreed, tipping his wine glass to her.

"Like, imagine if _I_ told you that you had to marry me by the end of the year or I'd leave you, Geo."

Paul leaned back in his seat, still grimacing. "It's...I mean, it's different, sort of. I mean, I understand where she's coming from. I proposed to her, and so I took on the responsibility of marrying her." He shook his head and laughed. "No, that sounds awful. You know what I mean. When I proposed, I was obviously telling her that I wanted to get married to her-"

"But things have been hard for you two, financially," George pointed out. "And you two had discussed that. So for her to completely twist it around was uncalled for."

"Well," Paul said, a bit flustered and slow to think, already having downed a few glasses before coming to George's, but still felt the need to defend his girlfriend. George wasn't absolutely the biggest fan of Jane, and they were in a sort of tacit agreement not to push the issue too far, but he still felt uncomfortable kicking her around. Even if he didn't think she was in the right.

"I mean, I understand, sort of," Pattie said, saving Paul. "You made a promise to her that you weren't keeping."

"You proposed, what, nine bloody months ago?" George said. "It's not like it's been two years."

"No," he conceded reluctantly.

"And- what was the thing you were telling me, about her mum and all?"

"Oh, yeah," he said, running his hand over his beard thoughtfully. "Well, her mum basically told me that I had to give Jane her dream wedding. Not in those words, but basically. Which I get, I mean Jane is their little girl and all, and she...she deserves a big fancy wedding, she really does, but I've- we haven't had the money for that." He took another gulp of wine. "At all."

"Which is why it would make _sense_ for you to wait," George finished.

"But listen! This is the thing. Today, I was at a meeting with Jane's agent-" He suddenly felt his slightly intoxicated mind go blank, stopped in its tracks by the memory of John, sitting on Nina's desk and smiling coyly at him.

"Yeah?" Pattie said.

"Er...right right, I was at a meeting with Jane and her agent, and she was saying- well, we were sort of talking about the wedding, because her agent, Nina, she's this American and she's really pushing Jane to get married by the end of the year-"

"So she's this one who's caused this shit storm, aye?" George said.

Paul sat blankly for a moment. "Well...maybe." The possibility of that had not yet occurred to him, but now that it had been brought up, it didn't seem like it was all that outlandish. Nina was a pushy lady, with a lot of influence over Jane. A bead of anger and irritation welled up inside him, and he tapped his foot thoughtfully, drinking more wine. "But, _anyway_ , the point is that we were talking about her wedding, and she brought up the fact that Jane's going to be getting a big fat check for this new show of hers!"

"The 60s drivel show?" George deadpanned.

"Shut up. It actually doesn't seem that bad, from what she's told me." He paused. "Are you two still coming to the premiere party tomorrow?"

George and Pattie looked to each other, something unreadable passing between them, and George shrugged.

"It's black tie, innit?"

"Yup."

"Well..."

"Are we invited?"

"Course you are, you're my plus one. The two of you are basically one person."

Pattie raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound too solid to me."

"It's fine. I mean, I'm the fiancé of the bloody star of the show, I can bring you two along." He paused again. "If you _want_ to come."

"It'll be fun," Pattie said. "If I'm allowed in on my crutches."

"It'll go well with a nice fancy dress, I'm sure," George said flatly. Paul could tell that he really didn't want to go to this party- and he couldn't necessarily blame him for that, because Paul himself didn't really want to go- but that he knew that Paul was going to be miserable all alone there. George was almost always his plus one to these industry events of Jane's, even back when they were just for the theater; Paul enjoyed parties, but those filled with actors were a bit of a struggle for him, as they all had these very brash and sometimes obnoxious personalities, ones that Jane herself seemed to get carried away in, leaving Paul alone in the corner somewhere.

"You know, you really don't have to come," he said, trying to sound as sincere as possible. "It's going to be a big party."

"I mean, I'd like to go," Pattie said, looking to George, who just shrugged again. "If we're allowed, that is."

"It'll be fine, really."

"Anything to get me out of the house," she said with a laugh. "And any excuse to get dressed up."

"Yes, that would be nice," George sighed. "Yeah, we'll come. It should be fine."

"You have no idea how much this means to me," he said, suddenly unable to hide his anguish over the thought of being at a party that would have John Lennon in attendance. "God. You two are the best."

"Is it really going to be _that_ bad?" George asked.

"Well, no, I just- I'd be alone otherwise, and..." He bit his tongue. "Other stuff. You know. Anyway. Wanna play a game of rummy?"

A few hours later, after several rounds of rummy and bottles of wine, the evening was winding down and Paul followed George into the kitchen to clean up a bit. He wasn't quite drunk, but his head felt stuffy and his thoughts too pliable. Without intention, he'd been thinking about John again; the afternoon after their horrible performance at Sefton Park, when John had smuggled all those beers into the backyard and, tauntingly, had gotten Paul to drink one. His body felt warm and fuzzy with the memory, remembering the way he'd looked, lean body stretched across the lawn chair like a cat sunning himself; then again, maybe it was just the wine thinking for him.

Either way, it was harder now for him to keep such a tight lid on his thoughts, as he was normally fanatical about doing . He leaned across the counter and groaned.

"What's really going on with you?" George asked, looking over his shoulder from the sink. "Because this doesn't just seem like some normal fight between you and Jane. You've never acted like this before when you and her have had tiffs."

Paul rolled his eyes. "What, with all the loads of fights we've had before?"

George just gave him a look. "You joke, but..."

"Gah, whatever. And this isn't- this isn't all about Jane, anyway," he said, mumbling as he continued. He could feel his face burning. George turned the sink off and turned to face him, eyes wide.

"What are you talking about?" he said, slowly.

"It's not all about Jane."

George glanced wildly between Paul and the living room, leaning forward to hiss, "Is there another woman?!"

"No!" he half-shouted, lazily slapping at him. "God, no. There's not another woman. Are you mental? No."

"Well, then what is it?"

He sighed, scratching his arm nervously. "It's, um...well...do you remember John Lennon?"

George stared at him, then burst out in laughter. "Do I remember John Lennon? Are you joking?"

"Okay, yes fine, but listen." He took a deep breath. "Jane's new agent is...John."

George instantly stopped laughing. His face took on a peculiar expression, as though it were in the midst of processing something but couldn't quite compute. He blinked. "Jane's new agent is...John Lennon?" he repeated. "John from _Liverpool_ John?"

"Yes."

"Holy _shit_ ," he said, blowing his cheeks out. "Jesus Christ, Paul."

"Yeah."

"What the hell is he doing here?"

"Jane's agent said he got transferred."

George looked blankly around, eyebrows knitted together, and almost stuttered as he continued. "I mean- does he- did you see each other? Have you, _y'know_ -"

"He came to visit Jane at the house last week. And then, today, when we were her agent's office, he came in for a bit."

"He came to your _house_?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Christ...are you like...are you okay, Paul?"

"Of course I'm fine," he scoffed.

"Did you two...talk?"

"No. I mean... _no_. Not at all. He said 'hello' and 'nice to meet you'-"

"'Nice to meet you'? Was he joking?"

Paul breathed in harshly. "He was acting like he didn't know me. So I just sort of...went along."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why was he acting like he didn't know you? You two were...practically best mates, I mean, you were in the band together, and..."

"Same reason he never called me, I suppose," he said, shuttering his eyes downwards. He was beginning to feel quite tired, the more he thought about it. Maybe he needed another drink.

George was silent for a moment or two, then asked, softly, "Is he going to be at that party tomorrow?"

Paul grimaced, and laughed. He couldn't really help it; laughter quickly overtook him, quickly devolving into strange peals of hiccups as he clutched the sides of the kitchen island like it was a life-raft. George couldn't help but giggle too, and whacked him on the shoulder.

"Less wine for you next time, sonny." He paused, smiling. "And Paul?"

"Yes, sir?"

"We'll be there tomorrow."

"Promise?" he said after a beat.

"Promise," George said, firmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally a reunion! although not so happy, yet.


	9. Something

The day of the premiere, and Paul was miserably hungover. He supposed there'd been times in his life when he'd been more ill-prepared for socially-demanding events, although he couldn't really think of them as he rolled out of a bed with a splitting headache and unwashed hair. George had driven him home, he remembered that much, and he had gone to a fitful sleep filled with dreams of a boy with a smart, taunting smile.

Jane was up early, as usual. She'd come in to his room sometime before 8, and crawled in beside him; he was grateful for the company, clinging on to her body like it was a stuffed animal. She tossed him off, but even then he was barely conscious for that, embarrassingly enough. She sat at the end of the bed when she'd come back from washing her hands, and he opened his eyes to see her staring down strangely at him.

"I hope that you're happy," she said, a sentence usually spoken by people with irony, he noted, but she was sincere in her tone. She reached out to brush his face, softly, then cupped his beard in her hand. "Are you going to keep this for the wedding?"

He sat up with a start, squinting his eyes in irritation. "I thought you liked the beard."

"Well...I _do_ , but I was just thinking about the photos."

He stared up blankly at her. "I can shave."

"No, it's fine."

"I really thought you liked it. Is it- is it getting too long?"

Her hand moved from his beard to his hair, running the strands through her fingers. She brushed it down over his shoulders, almost like she was appraising it. He felt naked beneath her gaze, and he wasn't so sure if it was in a good way or not.

"Your hair is so long now," she said, softly. "Remember when we met and you had a crewcut?"

"Is this your covert way of telling me you want me to shave the beard and lob off all of my hair for the wedding?" he asked flatly.

"Not necessarily," she said, in her typical vague and uncommitted way, which clearly meant that was what she wanted. He sighed, and took her hand firmly. He kissed it, gentle, and saw her smile in the small way he loved so.

"Because I will, if you want me to..." he murmured, between kisses, all along the joints of her finger, the delicate skin between her thumb and index finger. He felt her breathe harshly, then pull away. He looked up, a bit disappointed, and could see that she was blushing.

"I've got to get ready for the day," she half-laughed. "You can't go distracting me."

He kissed her hand one final time and then let her stand up. "Sorry, love. Go on. Big day ahead."

"I love you," she said, and her voice sounded strange to him. He shook it off anyway and repeated the sentiment, already feeling distracted

The rest of the day passed like a blur, a coup d'etat of the house via Jane's enormous team of agents, media personnel, and assorted network people. Paul had slunk off to Abbey Road before he'd had the chance to run into any certain agent people, already feeling anxious from the impending doom of the night laying before him. Thank god George and Pattie were coming to the premiere; he didn't think he'd be able to survive without them.

There wasn't really supposed to be anyone at the studio that day, at least not in theirs; Jimmy was on vacation to Bermuda or the Bahamas or something, as though they weren't mere weeks away from the deadline of his album release. There'd been frustratingly little done to advance the state of the record; from what Paul could tell so far, even as the lowly session musician he was, the music that had been recorded was in shambles, and George M looked to be constantly on the brink of stroke vis-à-vis stress.

Unsurprisingly, he was there that morning, too. Paul found him in the sound booth, one elbow up on the board, big headphones on, staring blankly at the controls. His fingers were dancing over the vinyl wood, and he looked up, surprised, when Paul quietly stepped in.

"Oh. Paul. Hello." He sat straight up and pushed the headphones off his ears to hang around his neck. He smiled wanly, and gestured to the rolling chair across from him. "Here, come, sit."

"Guess I'm not surprised to see you here too," Paul laughed wearily.

"I could say the same of you," he said. "But I thought you'd already recorded all your takes for the first batch of tracks?"

He shrugged weakly, looking off into the recording room. "Yeah. Haven't got anything much better to do, though, thought I'd just come and mess with some stuff."

George sighed, then removed the headphones properly and stared over at Paul with an uncharacteristic sadness. He seemed to be composing his thoughts for a moment, eyes flitting around the room, before he smiled in a strange, hollow way to himself, and looked back up to Paul.

"Paul, if this record doesn't perform well, they're going to can me."

He stared back at him, denial overcoming shock and confusion, shaking his head and saying, "What? They can't- they wouldn't do that."

George just nodded solemnly. "They've been making cuts. My job is becoming obsolete, they've come to think, and if this record is as bad as I think it will be..." He grimaced. "I'll be gone by the end of the year."

"But...you're practically an _institution_ here."

"So was Rob Damascus, and Elliot Guidle. And now they're both gone, too."

Paul was silent for a moment, grasping desperately for something proper to say. George could tell he was struggling; he placed his hand on Paul's shoulder sympathetically and tutted.

"I'll be alright, Paul. I've been fired before."

"But you're not _fired_ yet, George. I mean..." he trailed off, wringing his hands out. "Who says this album is going to be a piece of shit?"

George smiled wanly again. "Every single person working on it."

"Then we'll do better work on it," he said firmly. George raised an eyebrow. "I'm being serious. We will make this record not shitty, if that's what it takes. We're not losing you to...a new college graduate, or a machine, or a fucking trained monkey. Whatever they think could replace you."

George grimaced. "That's all very kind of you, but the album is due out in just a few weeks. The chances of anything monumental happening that could change the course of it now are...slim."

"Well, then we come in everyday and work to improve those chances."

"Paul, I feel like you're missing the larger point here."

"Which is?"

"An album with Jimmy Robbins on it is never going to be good."

Paul sat back in his seat, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Do you know when he's getting back to London?"

"Wednesday."

"Why don't I record his vocal takes?"

George made a face. " _Paul_ -"

"Just the backing. And we can blend them, so his obvious drunkeness isn't so obvious."

"Paul, Jimmy has one of the most recognizable voices in all of Britain. It wouldn't-"

"But it's worth a shot, right?"

He sighed, and buried his face in his hands. "Listen, can we talk about this more on Monday?"

"George, I'm trying to save your job."

"We will talk about this later," George snapped, and he instantly sensed that he'd crossed a line. "I know you're just trying to be helpful, but this is...a more complicated situation than you know. I'm sorry. It's not your fault."

"Alright," Paul said, still frustrated but not willing to push the subject any further. "Alright, we'll talk later. Will you be here tomorrow?"

"I'll be here Monday." He paused a moment. "Isn't your girlfriend's show premiering tonight?"

"Er, yes, Jane's show is coming out tonight."

He looked confusedly around the room, then sort of laughed. "What the hell are you doing here instead, then?"

"Well, this is a hell of a lot more entertaining than being stuck around a bunch of suits discussing projected ratings," Paul laughed, internally relieved that George, at least seemingly, did not totally hate him.

"Alright, alright," he said, and his fingers starting trailing across the board. "Well, while you're here, why don't you help me with some grunt engineering work."

"Sounds good," Paul beamed, and was unbelievably happy that he did not yet have to return to that house that possibly contained a certain J. Lennon.

...

Several hours later, Paul breezed into the house in a suitably pleased mood. They'd gotten a lot of work done on the record; reengineering some parts, restructuring some arrangements. Despite George M's pensive pessimism, the record was actually starting to sound not half-bad; minus the whiny vocals of Jimmy of course. Paul tried not have a big head about his vocal abilities, and he really didn't think they were anything outstanding, but at least he could decently carry a pitch. Listening to some of those takes, it was a bit hard to imagine that it was the same man who had won a national singing competition.

Which was why, consequently, he thought the record would greatly improve if he could just tape some of the vocals. It wasn't as though they couldn't decently make it sound like Jimmy in production, but he understood George's wariness to open that can of worms, probably afraid that Paul might do something stupid and try to claim vocal credits in the liner or something, or do one of those tell-all interviews revealing how it was really him singing. But Paul was smarter than that, and knew that he could use it- sneakily, of course- to his own advantage, without necessarily discrediting George M or Abbey Road. Another plus side, of course, would be that the record would sound about a million times better and that George M would certainly get to keep his job.

So this was all on his mind, incidentally, as he strode into the living room feeling all high-and-mighty about himself, and where, of course, he found Jane sitting on the couch crying.

"Jane, love?" he said warily, crossing the room to sit beside her. She shirked away from his touch, which was a very bad sign indeed. "What's- what's wrong?"

"Where have you been?" she said, struggling to compose herself and dabbing at her eyes. "You just disappeared."

"I had to go to Abbey Road to help George Martin with something."

"Paul, I feel positively sick about tonight," she cried, finally leaning into him. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders tightly.

"Oh, my dear," he said, gently wiping her tears away with the calloused pad of his thumb. She sniffled and looked up at him.

"Nothing is ever going to be the same after tonight."

"Well... _no_."

"It's- even if it all goes horribly and no one watches or the critics destroy it, it's still going to be...it'll be my legacy! And if it does, if it does go well...you were right, I mean, I'm never just going to be able to go out into public like a normal person ever again!"

Paul bit his tongue, quick to point out that this show could not possibly make her that bloody famous that she couldn't leave the house, but he could tell she needed some indulging. He rubbed circles into her back and pressed his forehead against her hair.

"Love, it's all going to be okay. Any way it goes, it'll be okay."

"You don't know that!" she cried.

"Well, no, but no one ever does." He sighed, and smoothed her hair backwards, then glanced around the room. "Where did all your people go?"

"They're coming back in an hour to help me get ready."

"Oh. Well...maybe we can go upstairs until then?" he said softly, moving his hand to rest at the hollow of her neck, tracing the delicate skin there. She made another choked sobbing sound.

"Paul, I'm really too upset right now."

"O-okay, yes, sorry. Er...right. Shall I put on the telly?"

"I really just want to be alone right now."

"Okay," he said, and kissed her on top of the head before standing up. "If you need me I'll be upstairs."

"I love you, Paul," she mumbled, quickly, almost as an afterthought. "Thank you."

"I love you too. I'll see you in a bit, yeah?"

"Yeah," she said quietly, head hanging and fingers distractedly playing with the hem of her skirt. "Say, did you pick up your suit from the dry cleaner's?"

"Shit. I knew I forgot something. Shit- I should probably go now." He started heading towards the door. "Thank you for reminding me."

"No problem," she said, still so, so quiet, but he respected her wishes and kept a suitable distance.

"Well, I'll be back in a few," he called out, running to the door with his keys. "Do you need anything while I'm out? Takeaway or anything?"

"No, I'm fine. Thank you, though."

"Alright, see you soon."

"Bye."

The entire round trip to the cleaner's, Paul replayed the interaction with Jane in his head over and over again. There was something _off_ about her, something he couldn't quite place. It was stressing him out. They were supposed to be good now; they'd had a real, constructive conversation about the wedding, she was about to come into enough money to fund everything, and overall it felt that things were going smoothly. He chalked it up to stress from the premiere, which he completely understood. She was right; after tonight, everything _was_ going to change. He'd been thinking about that for weeks. They weren't just going to be _Paul and Jane_ anymore; they would be Jane Asher, famous TV star, and her civilian fiancé, whatshisface. Someone that mattered and someone that didn't. It really wasn't that he had an issue with that because she was the woman in the relationship or whatever- he wasn't a chauvinist- more so that she was going to be the famous one and he was going to be a nobody.

He looked up to the sky as he walked down the street back to the townhome, the overwhelming blueness seeming to tell him something: _stop being such a bloody drama queen_.

Of course he wanted to be famous. Every single person on the bloody planet wanted to be famous. He wanted to be discovered by a higher-up at Abbey Road, and get his own record deal, and make a really good record and have singles on the radio and sell ten million copies and have his face on the fronts of magazines and billboards. He was an ambitious person, and wasn't afraid to admit it. But to be so close to achieving that dream, and yet so far, was embarrassing to the extent that he felt like he'd failed himself, somehow. And now, with Jane achieving her dream, it was all just salt in the wound. He hated himself for feeling that way, and he knew he was a horrible boyfriend for it, but he couldn't really help it. Maybe she'd clued into that, and that was the source of her coldness. He just didn't know anymore.

Which was why, along with everything else, he was absolutely fucking dreading this party.

He trudged back up the steps to the townhome, and, discovering the return of all agents and the rest of Jane's entourage, quietly excused himself upstairs with his suit bag. They had about an hour and a half until they were supposed to leave for the party, and so he hung around in his room feeling dull and pointless for 75 minutes, half-assedly playing the piano and mostly just stressing, until he started to get ready.

The suit was a purposefully understated thing, nice black trousers and a black jacket, buttoned white shirt, no tie. He combed his hair and slicked it back off of his face, sort of smoothed his beard down; he was self-conscious about them both after Jane's comments that morning. They'd mainly been grown out of laziness, although he liked how it made him look older. He'd struggled with a bit of a permanent baby-face, chubby cheeks and puppy eyes that stubbornly remained even as he rapidly approached his 30s, but with the longer hair and especially the beard he felt that he got more respect. It'd been quite some time since he'd been without them, and he stared at his face in the mirror trying to remember what he looked like under all the hair. He wasn't so sure he wanted to see it again, but if Jane wanted it for the wedding, he didn't know that he'd have a choice.

After some mouthwash and a final once over, he put on his nice watch and headed down the stairs. Jane was sitting primly on the couch when he descended, and looked absolutely gorgeous and glam. Her hair was half-up in a bouffant and she was wearing a sequined shift dress that glittered in the late-evening light streaming in from between the folds of the curtain. 

"Wow," he said, grinning broadly. "Ms. Asher, I must say, you look trés chic tonight. Very sixties."

She glanced up at him bashfully, face so done up he nearly couldn't recognize her; she looked a bit like a doll that had been taken out of the box and propped up. Her eyes seemed swollen with all the eyeliner and eyeshadow surrounded them, lips pursed outwards and goopy. He walked to stand beside her, took her hand and kissed it lightly. The gaggle of media people, hairdressers and makeup artists and whatnot, giggled uncontrollably.

"Paul, you're such a charmer," one cooed.

"He's such a _gentleman_ ," Nina said, appearing as though out of thin air. He couldn't help but jump a bit; the woman was like a goddamn ghost.

"Ah, hello, Nina," he said, keeping his gaze trained on Jane the whole time. Her eyes were still cast downwards, and he was a bit worried, honestly. He stroked her hand affectionately and smiled encouragingly at her.

"Our Jane is just feeling a bit nervous about tonight," Nina explained.

"It's alright, nothing really," she mumbled, pushing stray pieces of hair behind her ear. She squeezed his hand and said, quietly, "You look nice."

"That means quite a bit coming from a woman as stunning as you," he said, then added, jokingly, "Well? Are we ready to head over? Is there a limousine waiting for us on the street?"

"The limo should be here in 10 minutes," one of Nina's assistants assured him.

He whipped his head around. "We're going over in a _limo_?"

"Well, why wouldn't we?"

"It's like, what, a ten minute drive to Knightsbridge?" he half-laughed.

"This is a fancy premiere, Paul," Nina said, giving him a strange look. "We're not arriving in a goddamn _van_."

"Well...alright," he said, a bit flustered. He didn't generally like all the flash and unnecessary attention of a limo; he sort of saw it as a desperate _look at me!_ And that wasn't even mentioning the massive carbon footprint. But, firmly, he had to remind himself that this was _for Jane_ , and not him.

Jane squeezed his hand again. "It's okay, love."

"As long as this doesn't turn into a regular thing," he said, laughing uncomfortably. "No limo rides round the block to the grocer's or anything..."

Nina stared at him incredulously, eyes narrowed. "Let your girl have some fun, Prince Charming."

He sighed in exasperation. "Yes, yes, I know."

And so they- Paul, Jane, Nina, and one of Nina's assistants- were ushered into the enormous, fancy limo, a sleek black monolith that seemed to stretch halfway down the block, so unnecessarily large for only four people, and Paul timed the ride on his watch: less than 10 minutes. He did his best to hide his grumbling, knowing it wasn't helping; Jane sat in tense silence beside him, gripping his arm, and Nina filled the silence with the droning sound of her voice, going on and on to Jane about what a wonderful night this was all going to be and that it was all up and up for her from then on. Paul stared out the window, watching the houses and shops and people rush by, all too very busy to stop and look at each other. He found himself, for no particular reason, thinking about John.

If he thought anyone would have been above the glitz and sleaze of the entertainment business, it would have been John, but maybe he didn't know him as well as he thought he had.

 _Well_ , he thought, biting his lip. _That was the issue, wasn't it?_ He'd made the mistake of thinking he'd _known_ John, and thinking that John had cared about him, and in the end it had only hurt him. _Never going back again,_ he reminded himself firmly.

"We're almost there," Nina said excitedly, reaching into her purse and retrieving lipstick, dabbing at her lips with it and smiling huge at Jane. "Are you excited, girl?"

"Still just sort of nervous," Jane admitted, grimacing.

"Oh, you're going to be fine. Just remember to smile when the cameras flash, right? And Paul, you too. Unless you think that makes you too much of a pompous celebrity?" she said, clipping the last bit with obvious sarcasm. He groaned and rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to say something, but felt Jane squeeze his hand and he shut it. The last thing any of them needed was a fight, clearly.

The limo pulled to a stop. Out the window, Paul was greeted with one of the largest mansions he'd ever seen, no less impressive considering they were deep into the center of London. There were about a million cars and photographers swarming the front of the house, and Jane paled.

"Alright, hon, you're just going to step out with Paul and walk up to the front door. We'll be right after you. Just smile and hold his hand, don't stop to talk to anyone."

"Okay," Jane said. She looked to Paul. "Are you ready?"

"S'pose so," he said, grimacing.

He opened the limo door, stepping out first, and helped Jane out. Photographers immediately descended upon them, a million flashing lights in his eyes, but he swallowed his nerves and dazed stupor and smiled as wide as he could, leading Jane through the crowd. She walked slower than he did, and he turned back to see her smiling without an ounce of unease and waving and winking at the cameras. He couldn't help but laugh, and squeezed her hand even tighter as they walked up to the front door. It opened for them; as soon as they were inside, he turned to her and laughed again.

"I thought someone didn't like the paparazzi," he teased.

"I don't," she gasped.

"Clearly."

"I was going along with it!" she said, a smile breaking on to her face. Feeling a rush from the attention and excitement, he leaned down and kissed her, deeply, hands framing her face. It was at that moment, of course, that the door opened again, and their faces flashed in the catch of a million more photographers. Jane, blushing hard enough to start a small fire, nonetheless broke away from him and turned to the cameras and grinned cheekily, putting her hand on his chest like it was a prom photo. They gobbled it up. People started shouting things, questions all garbled, nothing he could make out, before Nina stepped in and shut the door quickly.

"You did great!" she squealed, pulling Jane away from him and into a hug. "Oh my god. My girl's first paparazzi assault."

"It's not my first," Jane laughed. "When I was 5-"

"Oh yes, I know, but her first real one. This is just the start, baby!" she said, clearly excited beyond her wits, then shook her head and put a hand on each of their arms. "Alright. Alright. Now on to the real party."

As if to illustrate her point, a young man in a tuxedo appeared beside them, hands clasped behind his back. He had large eyes, ponderous and light, and Paul swallowed, looking away; he was excited from the crowd, the flashing lights, and was obviously feeling a bit off his rocker. It had nothing to do with how similar those eyes looked to a certain someone. _Someone who was likely already at this party,_ he thought, groaning to himself, suddenly feeling nerves overtake him. His hands felt all clammy and sweaty, and he stepped back.

"Er, I reckon I ought to go find George and Pattie," he said, running his hand back through his hair.

"Already?" Jane said.

"Well-"

"I'm here to escort you into the party, sir and ma'am," the man in the tuxedo said curtly, ignoring him.

"Oh, joy," he said flatly.

"Isn't it exciting!" Nina squealed again. "Alright. Go on, you two."

Jane took his hand again, and the tuxedo man led them down a tiny, dark hallway into an enormous drawing room. As his eyes adjusted to the light, everything looked gold; heavy, ornate curtains, a gleaming chandelier, jazz music playing softly in the background. Most of the furniture had been moved to the sides of the room, and maybe 40 people, all in very fancy dresses and suits, milled about eating mini-sandwiches and drinking little flutes of champagne. Paul looked down at Jane and grinned.

"This seems a bit old-fashioned, don't you think?"

She laughed. "How do you mean?"

"Well, I just thought it might be a bit less...old London money, I suppose."

Jane looked around the room blankly. "I like it."

"Well, yeah, but-"

Suddenly there was a mass uproar. About three or four woman spotted Jane, and sprinted across the room to envelop her in a mass of squeals and sequins, hugging her and nearly taking her off her feet. Paul stepped back politely.

"Oh, Jane, you look gorgeous-"

"Absolutely gorgeous, sweetheart-"

"You're _glowing_!"

The gaggle of women were Jane's costars on her show, _The Pretty Things_. True to the title, they were all, in fact, very pretty. He couldn't really remember all their names on the spot; he didn't dislike them, not really, they all just sort of blended together and were a bit of dull company. They were all dressed quite skimpily, like strange alien creatures with their goopy faces and teeny mini dresses. They gabbled on and on, appraising Jane's hair and dress, handing her champagne and talking about the newest developments in ratings predictions, and he glanced around. He soon spotted George and Pattie off in the corner, standing and laughing with someone he didn't recognize, and he took the opportunity to head over to them. Jane touched his arm impersonally as he walked away.

As he got closer, George spotted him, and smiled warmly. "There you are!" he exclaimed, pulling him into a hug. "We were starting to worry we'd gone to the wrong TV show premiere party in Knightsbridge."

"Haha. God, it's good to see you," he admitted, maybe with a deeper sense of his distraught state than he meant to, and George chuckled. "And hi Pattie, you look gorgeous."

"I was a bit worried about how the dress might go with the crutches," she laughed, holding the crutches up against a shimmery green dress. Pattie was a model, at least when her leg wasn't broken; she always looked gorgeous, regardless of if she tried or if she didn't.

"The colors go together well," he said. "Has anyone given you two funny looks yet?"

"They're all too busy hobnobbing to notice us," George said. "Oh, shit, sorry, I haven't introduced you to David. David, this is Paul. Paul, David."

David, the mysterious third figure chatting with George and Pattie, was short and thin, with wiry hair and the nervous disposition of a little boy who'd been caught stealing cookies. He smiled anxiously and shook Paul's hand limply. "Hi, nice to meet you."

"Pattie and David know each other through her agency," George explained.

"Ah," Paul said, looking him up and down. He seemed like any other creep in the modeling business, truth be told, and he had felt an immediate dislike for the man. "Well, it's cool you know people here. I certainly don't."

"You don't know those girls swarming your fiancee?" Pattie asked, raising an eyebrow, and pointed to where Jane was still in the center of the room, surrounded by her costars and looking dazzled.

"Er, only incidentally. They're her costars on the...thing. The show, you know."

David stared up at him. "Your girlfriend is on the show?"

"My fiancee, yes," he said curtly. "She's the star of it, actually."

"Your girlfriend is Jane Asher?" he repeated with his mouth hanging open.

"Fiancee," he said.

"Wow, man!" David said, clapping him on the back. Paul disliked him _a lot_ , as it went.

"Caviar bites, anyone?"

Suddenly, another man in a tuxedo had suddenly appeared, brandishing a silver plate of little crackers garnished with, apparently, caviar.

"No, no- caviar?" Paul said incredulously, picking one up and inspecting it.

"Yes, sir."

"God, how fancy is this party?" George asked, taking a cracker as well.

"It's because the Beeb runs this all," Paul explained. "They have loads of money to spend, I suppose. Jane was telling me that the higher-ups at the network are excited for this show." He popped the cracker in his mouth, surprised as the caviar burst on his tongue; a strange salty taste filled his senses, and he poked his tongue around. "Mm. That's pretty good. I get what all the hype is about."

Pattie leaned over and whispered something to George, who nodded and then looked at Paul with a knowing look.

"Say, Paul, let's head over there for a moment."

"Huh- why?"

"No reason," he said, and grabbed his arm and dragged him away to the drinks table. Paul glanced back at Pattie, grinning with a mouth full of caviar, and felt very strange about everything indeed.

"What is it?" he said, shaking his arm away. "I- what-"

"Paul," George said, staring at him with a frightening intensity. "I had to talk to you about this one on one. Sorry. Pattie just reminded me."

"What is it?"

"I stayed after at the studio the other night and talked to George Martin. He said that they're- they're going to fire him."

Paul blinked. "Yeah. I know."

"Wait- what?"

"He told me."

"When?"

"Earlier today."

George looked around. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Paul laughed. "Why didn't _you_ tell _me_?"

He looked sheepish. "Well...well, y'know. I wanted to tell you."

"Yeah, I know. I get it. Listen, I'll tell you what I told him, I don't think- I don't think they'll really _do_ it first of all-"

"He said they would."

"He was just being dramatic cause he's upset, since they canned those two engineer guys last week, anyway, they won't do it, but they especially won't do it if we make sure this album is really good."

"Jimmy Robbins album? Really good?"

"I have an idea," he said, unable to control his excitement. "I'm going to record the vocals for it."

George just drew his eyebrows together. "What?"

"I'll do backing vocals, and we can blend it." He shook his head. "Or I suppose _someone_ can do the vocals, and we blend them out. It doesn't have to be me. But someone with a good voice who isn't drunk."

"I don't really know if that'll work, Paul."

He stared back at him, shaking his head. "Why not?"

"Paul," George started, pulling them to the side of the room more. "Listen. George M and I talked about this. If they fire him, I think we should leave, too."

Now it was his turn to stare all incredulously. "What? Why?"

"I mean, it's pretty clear that things have been getting worse there recently, and it's only going to be downhill if they get rid of George. That would be the time for us to get out." George drew him closer, speaking harshly. "He's thinking about starting his own studio. He wants us there."

"He didn't tell me any of this."

"Probably because you were talking about recording Jimmy's fucking vocals for him!" George laughed, but he wasn't smiling. "Listen, just think about it, alright? I think this could be really good for all of us. I know that you've felt... _stuck_ , there, recently."

"Yeah," he agreed reluctantly, but still felt weird about the whole thing.

"That would also mean that we'd be able to, y'know...start recording our own music, right?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

"And we've been talking about that since Liverpool."

"Yeah, I know."

There was a pause, a dip in the conversation, and Paul looked around the room more. He didn't feel well; the thought of not being there, of venturing out into the unknown was overwhelming. He didn't want to have to say goodbye to that part of his life, especially as so much else of it was about to change. George, eternally thoughtful, seemed to realize this, and after a while said quietly, "I know it still sucks, though."

"Sort of."

"Paul, just think about it, please?"

"Yeah, yeah, I will."

"Alright. And hey, this is all depending on if he gets fired, which we don't even know might happen or not."

"Yeah, yeah."

George, face shrouded by a pensive air once more, turned to the table and picked up a flute of champagne. "Want one?" he said, holding one up. Paul took it gratefully.

"All I want to do now is get drunk," he muttered, and George smiled sadly at him.

"Hey, it's not that bad."

If Paul hadn't thought by now that the universe had it in for him- and it had done _everything_ in its entire power to convince him of that, really- this would have been the fucking straw the broke the camel's back. Standing there, in the middle of the room, was John.

Paul immediately felt a blush creep up his neck, not even thinking. He trained his eyes on his shoes, which suddenly seemed very interesting, and quickly downed his flute of champagne, reaching for another. He felt George tug at his sleeve.

"Paul, that's-"

"Yes."

"It's-"

" _I_ _know._ "

"Does he know you're here?"

"Well, he fucking knows Jane is my fiancee, I'm sure he can infer that I'm here."

"Do you want-"

" _No_."

"..."

"Are you looking at him?"

"Should I not?"

"Goddammit, don't look at him. He'll come over here."

"I'm being really covert about it."

Paul groaned and turned his back to the room, leaning over to hiss at George. "You are making me act like a bloody _teenage girl_ and it is not fair!"

"I think you're the one doing that to yourself, Paul," he said, laughing uncontrollably. "Your face is incredibly red, by the way."

"This is not funny!" he whined. "I don't want to talk to him."

"Cynthia's here, too."

"Joy. Joy to the world."

"And their kid."

Paul bit the inside of his lip, feeling a huge, mounting mass of rage and jealousy and hurt and embarrassment building in his stomach, the same as it always had every goddamn time he had to see John. This was the absolute last thing he needed tonight.

"Did you ever meet his wife and kid?" George asked.

"No. No I did not. Because he never bothered to call to fucking invite me to anything."

There was a lot that George knew about his relationship with John, as was to be expected from being his best friend and all, but there was a lot he'd sort of left to be inferred. George never asked about the nature of their relationship, thankfully, as Paul doubted he ever could have properly explained it. He couldn't even bloody explain it to himself, let alone another person. George basically just knew that Paul and John had had a very intense, short-lived friendship as teenagers mostly revolving around John's band, and that John had been horrible to Paul during that period, and subsequently horrible in the following years, including never calling him even when he'd promised he would. He was sure that George didn't really understand why Paul had willingly subjected himself to this over the years, or why he had willingly let his heart get broken by someone who definitely seemed like he didn't really care about him; again, Paul had never figured it out himself, either, so he couldn't expect another person to get it. But through it all George had been incredibly kind, supportive, and thoughtful, as he always was, and Paul was time and time again deeply honored to call him his best friend.

Even when he was fucking wagging his eyebrows at John and almost inviting him to come over.

"Would you stop it?" he practically cried. "I don't want to see him."

"Alright, alright," he said, turning his back on the room as well. "I would like to go back over to my girlfriend, though, if that's alright with you."

"It's fine, it's fine, just don't make eye contact with him."

"Are you sure you don't just want to _try_ and talk to him?"

"I am _very_ sure that I don't want to do that."

"You said it yourself," he said with a shrug, and they walked back over to where David and a very irate Pattie were still standing. Pattie was whispering in George's ear again, and Paul suddenly felt a pang of longing for his own girlfriend, off galavanting the room somewhere, endlessly networking even at her own celebratory party.

"So," David started, sidling up next to Paul. "What's it like having a famous TV actress as a girlfriend?"

Paul stared down at him. "Fiancee," he said, again.

"Right, right. Oh, hey! J, man! Over here!" David suddenly shouted, waving his arms. Paul felt sick instantly; as though caught in another terrible dream, David's excitedly thrashing hand caught the attention of a person in the middle of the crowd, their face turning to catch the light. There was a split second where Paul wasn't sure whose face it was, as they turned down again to excuse themselves out, but by the time he did recognize them, it was too late to run.

"John Lennon!" David exclaimed again as he walked up to them. "Long time, no see, man!"

"David," John said warmly, clapping him on the back. "Hardly recognize you, son, good job on the weight loss."

"Yeah, I've been on Atkins. Have you talked to Wanda recently?"

"Ah, no, I haven't since the move down here."

"Oh, shit, sorry," David said. "I should introduce you-"

"Paul," John said, a broad smile overtaking his face. _He looks like he's glowing_ , Paul thought dumbly.

"Oh, you two know each other?"

"Yes," Paul said quickly. He felt like he was hyperventilating again. "He's- John is one of Jane's agents."

"Small world!" David said. "This guy and I used to do some work together. Real whizz kid, aye?"

"Only a small world at industry parties," John said, his smile notably tighter. He took a quick sip of his drink. Paul, consciously or not, felt himself mirroring John again, taking a sip of his champagne right as he did.

"Well, I guess you're right. Say, is your wife here? What's her name, again? Cindy?"

"Cynthia," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah, er, she's over there with Julian, talking to someone from the old branch. I should probably be getting back over there."

"Well, hey, man, it was good to see you!"

"Yeah, you too," John said curtly, then, to his horror, turned to stare Paul straight down. "Hey, can you come with me for a sec? I've got talk to, er, Jane, I-"

"Hello, John," George said, interjecting quickly, and John's eyes widened.

"Holy shit. George?" he said, laughing. "You're the last person I-"

"Nice to see you again. And sorry, Paul was just coming with us to get some fresh air!" he said, pouting in a fake manner and brandishing Pattie's hand, removing it from her crutch. "Sorry about that."

"Oh-"

"Come along, Paul."

George grabbed Paul's hand and led both of them, slightly confused, away from John and into the hallway leading to the door. The air was colder without the heat of the people, their voices all a soft din. Paul collapsed on to a chair and buried his face in his hands.

" _That's_ John?" Pattie asked, setting her crutches against the wall and hobbling over to sit beside Paul.

"Yes."

She looked at George and smiled coyly. "You never mentioned how handsome he is."

"He's not handsome, he looks like a thumb!" George exclaimed. "And he's being a right prick, too. Of course he's friends with that tool from the modeling agency."

"I can't believe you left me to talk to that guy on my own for so long!" Pattie said, indignant. "I never liked him."

"I know," George said, wincing. "I am sorry about that. But, _God_. I still can't believe John is really here."

"Yeah," Paul mumbled from his hands.

"Aw, Paul," Pattie said, rubbing his back. "Was he really that awful to you?"

"Yes," George said, answering for him. "He's even more of a right prick than that David dude."

"Well, Christ. It's a bit like running into an ex, innit?"

Paul's face burned at that. "Something like that," he muttered, then drew his face out of his hands. "I'm fine. I should go back and find Jane, anyway. I think the premiere is starting soon." He checked his watch. "Yeah, we should get back."

"I'm sorry," Pattie said, and he felt even worse, unfortunately, from all the sympathy.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he groaned. "Just feeling a bit...overwhelmed, I guess."

"We'll be around to tell him to bugger off whenever he comes back," George said, grinning down at him.

"Haha. Thank you very much." He sat up. "I mean, really. I genuinely mean that. I don't think I'd get on very well without you two."

"No kidding," Pattie said.

"I think he'd be dead by now," George sighed, patting him on the shoulder. "Alright. Get up, man. Go find your girl."

And so they headed back into the party, Paul feeling lower than low, but finding his girlfriend quickly; she was in the center of the room, still, face awash in the golden light of the room and laughing a little too loudly. He snuck up behind her and kissed her neck affectionately, earning plenty of sighs from the gaggle of network people surrounding her.

"Um, hi, everyone, this is my fiancé, Paul," she giggled, taking his hand.

"When's the wedding?" someone asked, and rather than freak out, Paul suddenly felt a calm wash over him.

"It'll be by the end of the year," he said confidently, squeezing her hand. "We're very excited."

"Oh, Jane, I'll have to- remind me to send you the address of this lovely little dress shop downtown, you'll just love it," someone else said.

"Oh, I-"

"Hi, attention, everyone?" a voice suddenly called out. They had to repeat themselves several times before the various conversations around the room stopped, and all eyes went to the source of the announcements. It was a smallish man, wearing a very fancy suit, standing up on a chair. "Yes, hello, alright, the premiere of the show is starting in 20 minutes so I thought everybody should start heading to the viewing room, any of the caterers will be able to show you..."

Jane took Paul's hand and started leading him brashly towards the doorway everyone else was heading towards. Her hair smelled like alcohol; she never handled drinking well, and he could tell that she was already a little more than tipsy. If there was any night for her to celebrate, he supposed it would be this one. He tried to let himself get lost in the moment, the high of being the center of attention, the way she clearly hard. It did feel strange to be ushered by kids in tuxes younger than them, though.

The viewing room, as it was, seemed to be a miniature ballroom or large conference room that had been converted hastily into a movie theater. There were metal chairs with red cushions set up along scratchy beige carpeting- definitely a large conference room- all facing a big projector screen at the front of the room. It was whirring a series of ads at the moment, and the quality of the screen did not seem to be that high. The tuxedo kids led him and Jane to the very front row, which felt quite nice, to their specially assigned seats. JANE ASHER, one sign read, and it had a big star and a VIP beneath it. PAUL MCCARTNEY, the other read, with no else. Paul grimaced and tried not to think about it too much.

"I'm going to go get another drink," Jane leaned over and murmured in his ear.

"Ah, alright, love."

As she walked away, Paul craned his head over his shoulder to survey the room. No John yet, thankfully; he spotted George and Pattie towards the back of the room and gratefully went over to talk to them until Jane got back. It felt like nearly 15 minutes before she did get back, and by then the show was almost ready to begin. She said some quick hellos to George and Pattie, formal though they were, and they headed back to their seats to wait for it to begin.

"I'm...I'm quite nervous," Jane admitted, leaning heavily on his shoulder. "I'm afraid everyone won't like it."

"Of course they'll like it," he assured her, patting her arm affectionately. "And if they don't...they'll be too focused on how pretty you look to care, either way."

Jane tensed against him. "That doesn't make me feel better."

"Er, sorry." He took her hand and kissed her ring finger, just below the diamond engagement ring bejeweling it, then let it fall. "I love you, anyway."

"I love you too," she said distantly.

They sat in silence for a few moments, and for a second Paul was about to open his mouth to say something, but was cut off as someone took the little stage at the front and pulled out a mic. It was the same man who had led them into the room; he spoke quickly and a bit too loud for a minute about the show, and how proud they were of everyone, blah blah blah, and then the lights went out and the show finally began.

To be honest, Paul wasn't really paying that much attention. He'd seen lots of snippets from it already, had read Jane's scripts, even been there for the filming of some scenes. It was a period piece about 1960s London, named after one of the bands of that era, the Pretty Things (although he doubted even half of the audience knew that), and featured a group of young women, led by his fiancee, navigating the art scene and the counterculture and their love lives, blah blah blah. It seemed to be a blatant rip-off of Sex in the City, the more critically he watched it.

Really, though, he couldn't say much about the critical value of it one way or another; he had to piss so bad at that moment that he was half-afraid his bladder might burst. The champagne had caught up to him, apparently. He sat in terse discomfort just as long as the opening credits before tapping Jane on the arm quickly and excusing himself as discreetly as he could manage. This was, of course, kind of hard considering he was in the middle of the front row. He could feel Jane's harsh eyes following him as he crouched and walked quickly past the line of industry heads. He could already hear her voice asking _what the hell was wrong with him_ , but, again, the near-bursting bladder was his main focus at the moment.

Once he was out of the double doors to the converted theater, he looked up and down the hallway desperately for a restroom, sighing in relief when he spotted something that looked like that at the end of the hallway. In retrospect, he was sure he should have heard the double doors opening and closing again after him, but he was sure it'd been blocked out or explained away as one of the caterers.

It was a tiny bathroom, the size of a closet with a toilet and sink and clawfoot tub shoved in it; in his haste, he forgot to lock the door, and immediately rushed over to the toilet and unzipped. In retrospect, of course, this was a horrible, horrible misstep. Not even a few seconds after he'd started going about his business, the door opened and closed again.

Paul screamed, hands immediately going to cover his dick and falling backwards against the lip of the tub; when he looked up, he was face to face with the flushed and ecstatic face of who fucking else than John Lennon.

" _Fuck_!" he screamed, almost on the edge of blubbering. "What the- get the _fuck_ out!"

"Hi Paul," John said excitedly.

"I- I, what..." he stammered, hands still over his crotch, brain taking a moment to catch up with his body as he fumbled with the fly of his trousers.

"Paul-"

"What the _fuck_ , man? Can you- Jesus Christ, _get out!_ "

"No," he said, and God forbid, _smiled_.

"No?" he repeated, pulling himself out of the tub. " _No?_ "

"Well, first off, you should always know to lock the door after yourself, really, and second off, I came in here with a reason, so clearly I'm not just going to leave."

"Are you- are you _insane_? I'm..." He couldn't form a coherent sentence, he was so upset; his brain was still reeling from trying to process all of what was happening, and things weren't exactly synthesizing. John was standing with his back firm against the door, arms crossed over his chest, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"You have to understand," John began. "This is sort of a last-ditch effort. You've really left me with no other choice."

"You _are_ fucking crazy."

"How's it my fault you won't fucking talk to me?" he said, throwing his hands up. "I've done everything to try to get you to speak to me, man, and you've been looking at me like I'm not there."

Paul felt himself go very still. He sat up further on the edge of the tub, and stared John down. No hint of sarcasm in his voice, apparently, and with no further explanation that what he was saying was not a joke, Paul began to laugh.

"Are you- oh, Jesus, you really are being serious, aren't you?"

John just gave him a strange look. "What are you talking about?"

" _You_...have done _everything_ you can...to try and talk to _me_?" he said, slowly, enunciating every word with a hollow laugh. John had gone pale, and crossed his arms again. Something thoughtful settled into his face.

"Alright. Alright. I see what you're getting at here."

"Oh! Do you?"

"Don't be a cunt about it."

Paul widened his eyes. "You want me to not be a _cunt_ about it."

"You're talking like a teenage girl again," he scoffed. "Can I explain? I mean, this is _why_ I wanted to talk to you, Paul, okay?" he said, and his words took on a more pleading quality as he continued, like he was trying to coax him into something. Paul stiffened. He could feel a snarl overtaking his face, but he could have given less of a shit about it when John was standing there, talking to him like he was a nutcase.

"Don't talk to me like that," he snapped. "And I...John, I don't understand, really. I think you made- I think you've made everything between us _perfectly_ clear in the past decade, yeah?"

"Paul," he said, practically whining now. "Please don't do this. I just want to talk to you."

"So you've locked me in the bathroom?!"

"You wouldn't talk to me earlier!" he said in a sudden outburst. "You wouldn't look at me at your house, you wouldn't look at me at the offices, you wouldn't look at me back in the party..." He trailed off, breathing heavily, and Paul cast his eyes downward. "See? You won't even look at me now."

"Can you blame me?" he muttered. "Can you honestly, actually blame me for not wanting to talk to you?"

"I...if you would have let me explain, we wouldn't be in this situation."

"10 bloody years, John," he spat. "10 bloody _fucking_ years and you never, ever, ever called me. Didn't call me when you got bloody married, didn't call me when you had a bloody kid, didn't call to tell me you were moving to _bloody_ London!" he shouted. "I'm looking at you now, aren't I?" He stared John down with an apoplectic fury, and, to his credit, John neither moved nor opened his mouth. "Can you fucking well blame me for not looking at you when you acted like you'd never met me before in your entire life?"

"That's not fair," John protested weakly. "You didn't say anything, either."

"You said, _'_ _nice to meet you, Paul.'_ Should I have corrected you? Since you clearly didn't recognize me?"

"I was shocked," he argued. "I hadn't- did you think I walked in through the Jane Asher's door expecting to see _you_ of all bloody people?"

"Clearly I can see you would have wished you didn't."

"God, would you fucking stop?" John half-screamed. Paul was a bit taken aback; the other man had gone completely silent afterwards, and his head was hung, hand covering his eyes. He shook his head slowly, his shoulders rising and falling arrhythmically, and for a horrible moment, Paul was afraid he had started crying.

"...John?"

He raised his head slowly; no tears, no red eyes, thank god. He wouldn't meet Paul's gaze, but spoke lowly.

"If I sit beside you on the tub, do you promise you won't make a break for the door?" he asked, wearily. Paul stared at him a moment, eyes wavering, and nodded once. John sighed, and walked away from the door to sit on the end of the tub. Paul scooted down to the opposite end. "Thank you," he said, gruffly.

They sat in silence for a minute, maybe two. Paul stared at his shoes, the linoleum floor; John stared down, too, both too afraid to say anything and start screaming again. Paul thought, not really about anything, maybe still too shocked to think critically; it hadn't even occurred to him yet that he was in the midst of missing his fiancee's TV premiere, sitting here in this shoebox of a restroom with a man he'd known a decade ago. A flutter of laughter caught at his throat, and he realized, dumbly, that he hadn't even flushed the toilet.

"I forgot to flush," he wheezed, finally looking over at John, pointing at the toilet. "You scared me so bad that I forgot to flush." He leaned over and hit the lever with his hand. He was really, really laughing by then; John quirked a smile, like he'd been given permission to, and Paul kept pointing at the toilet. "I didn't even finish pissing, you fucking terror."

John smiled for real, then, dipping his head, asked cheekily, "Care to finish?"

"Not with you fucking sitting there," he laughed. "You ponce." John went silent again, something worried knitting itself into his brow. Paul shook his head, then said, looking up to the ceiling, "Christ, John, why did you never call me?"

There was no anger there, anymore, at least not at the moment. That was always how it went John. He got so terribly, furiously angry with him when he wasn't around, and then he'd pop back into his life and crack a joke and it was like he was too tired to even bother being angry anymore. He wanted to hate John for it, but there was a part of him that hated himself even more for it. It was how he kept letting him hurt him, and he _knew_ that, but as they sat on that tub, all he could think about was how much he'd bloody missed him.

"That's what I wanted to explain to you," John said, quietly, nudging his foot against an edge of the tile where the linoleum had started peeling. He took a deep breath. "And...first of all, I just want to say I'm sorry. And you should realize that that's a big deal for me because I don't say sorry very often, alright?"

"I'm quite aware, yeah."

"Yeah," he echoed, miserable, then scratched his head and continued. "So, er...I lost the paper with your number on it."

"Bullshit."

"Not immediately," he winced. "It was...well, it was a few years ago. One of the times that we moved, it got thrown into the wrong box and taken to the charity shop or something, and I could never find it."

"A few years ago?" Paul said, raising an eyebrow. "So what about the handful of years _before_ that?"

John looked extremely uncomfortable, and if his eyes didn't mistake him, had started sweating. It was actually a bit hot in the tiny, stuffy room; as if on cue, John started fumbling with his jacket and tore it off in a haste. Paul tried not to stare at the muscle of his upper arm straining against thin blue fabric as he threw the jacket across the room; he focused on staring at the floor again as John went about trying to roll his sleeves up. He certainly paid no mind to how his forearms looked, how familiar calloused hands clasped together.

"I can't- it's sort of hard, talking about that," John said, lowering his head again. Paul narrowed his eyes.

"Why?"

"Paul."

"That's not a reason, John. I deserve a bit of an explanation, don't you think?"

"You do," he said seriously, taking another deep breath and readjusting his seat on the tub. "Um...can I say something about alien abduction?"

"God, I really _don't_ want to be angry at you, and then you say stuff like that!" he exclaimed. "Just- can't you give me a reason?"

"I had a reason."

"That you won't tell me, apparently."

" _Paul_ -"

"For your own nefarious purposes, I suppose."

"Christ, it's complicated, alright?"

"How complicated can it be?" he asked exasperatedly.

"Complicated!"

"Tell me or I'm leaving."

John twisted up his face, then broke into a look of anguish. "Please don't leave, Paul."

"How many years did you have it? My phone number?"

He rolled his eyes, but seemed to swallow the annoyance upon seeing the look on Paul's face. He stared upwards, thinking for a moment. "God, I don't know. When did I see you last? 1994?" He thought for another moment. "We moved in 1997, so...three years."

"Three years."

He sighed. "Yes."

"And you just...didn't find the time to call me?"

"I was- I...I was- that was a hard time for me and Cynthia, it was..." he stammered, hands pushing into the ends of his thighs, eyes wide. "I was _busy_ , Paul, alright?"

"So is that the reason?"

John buried his face in his hands, words muffled. "It's more complicated than that." He took his head out, then looked at Paul with a surprising softness. For a moment again he was 17 years old, the older boy more confident and infinitely wiser than little Paulie, sitting in his backyard and desperately trying to explain to him why they couldn't stay friends when they grew up. Paul had been foolish back then, clouded by his own naiveté and false sense of knowledge about the world; it was only now, 26 years old, that he finally thought he might have understood what John had been trying to say.

"Alright," Paul said, and nodded once. Pure relief washed over John's face, and, likely without thinking, clasped Paul's hand between his and shook it gratefully. His hands, god, those hands, they felt like the most familiar thing in the world at that moment. 

"I...I will explain it to you, okay? Or at least I'll try," he added, mumbling. "Will you come over for tea, or something? You can bring Jane, yes, you should bring Jane, she and Cynthia can...do things, I suppose." He smiled, and still looked so, so sad. "I really want you to meet Julian."

"Yeah," he said, nodding again. "Yeah, I will, I will. I suppose we owe each other that after all this time, aye?"

"Thank god," John said, almost laughing, but it was a terrible, kind of frantic laugh. He looked down at his hands, still holding Paul's, and let it fall. "Alright. How's Sunday sound? 2pm?"

"You really are a businessman now, aren't you?"

He sort of grimaced. "Apparently."

"Well, I've really got to... _fuck_." He slapped his forehead.

"You've really got to fuck?"

"Fuck off," he said, standing up and swatting John on the shoulder. "God. Fuck. How long have we been in here?"

"I don't know."

"Jane is going to kill me."

"Tell her you had diarrhea."

"Well, I'm going to have to."

"Works every time, trust me."

Paul quirked an eyebrow, and, getting the better of himself, asked tauntingly, "Do you disappear into bathrooms with other men for long periods of time on the regular, John?"

John laughed, standing up to pick up his coat from the floor and sling it over his arm, but there was something disconnected and nervous about it, still. Paul tried not to read too much into that, and walked towards the door.

"Well. I've got to go. Sunday at 2pm? Your address?"

"Jane will have it."

"Right. Lovely."

"See you there," John said, but Paul had already run out the door without the chance to say something back.

As he ran down the hallway, back to his fiancee and real life and all else, he felt something welling up inside his chest. If he wasn't absolutely out of his gourd, he would have said that something felt a little like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the day of the fated premiere party!
> 
> a good long chapter, and i'm quite happy with it :) and loooots of drama, of course, because what else.
> 
> also, i've read all of your comments from the past few chapters like a million times and cried and i'm sorry if i haven't responded to them, they seriously all mean the world to me and keep me motivated to keep writing this! like reading all of them literally makes my entire day :')
> 
> anyway, i hope quarantine is bearable for all of you, good thing there's fanfic to help us through these trying times lol.
> 
> side-note: if i were to make a master-post type thing on tumblr of all the photos i've used as reference for the different periods in this story, would y'all be interested?


	10. Get Back

Explaining things to Jane hadn't been so bad, surprisingly. After the initial anger and confusion and annoyance there had settled an unprecedented and, admittedly, uncharacteristic wave of indifference once he had uncomfortably explained it away as an attack of diarrhea. Maybe she was just calmer in general, now that the worst was over; he liked to think that that was what it was. The premiere of her show, unaffected by his foray into the bathroom with John, had gone wondrously. _The Pretty Things_ was the hottest new show in Britain, reviewers were warmly positive, and viewership for the network the night of the premiere had set a record for the new millennium. Things couldn't have been going better for Jane, what with her show doing so well and the wedding planning officially starting, so _of course_ she was calmer.

Conversely, Paul was about as _far_ from calm as any human being could possibly get.

He'd thought that the majority of his John-related stress had come from the terror of anticipation: that nothing could possibly be worse than that first conversation between them, and that after that he'd be able to relax somewhat, knowing that at least the unknown was over. But now he just felt more anxious than ever. Saturday was spent in a haze of regret and dread, wondering why he'd ever been so _stupid_ as to say yes to a bloody tea time double date. He'd been so intoxicated on the joy of _seeing_ and _talking_ to John again that all good common sense had gone out the window. He _hated_ himself for it, this inability to be a mature adult of sound judgement and stable emotion whenever John was involved. He figured it had to be the fact that their relationship had been forged when he was still a teenager, and so his emotions surrounding the man were still that of that stupid 14-year-old, all giggly and fawning in the mere presence of Dear St. John.

"Paul, love?"

Jane's voice snapped him out of the trance he'd fallen into. His fingers, realizing themselves again, dropped the paperback he'd been distractedly thumbing through into his lap. He looked up to Jane and raised his eyebrows.

"Ah, yes?"

"We need your input on some palette decisions."

He nodded, setting the book aside and standing up to follow Jane into the dining room. True to the predictions of so many people in his life, Jane had all but taken over the preparations for the wedding; under Nina's direction, it had become something more as though they were all preparing to go to war. Albeit one fought with flower arrangements and slices of cake, but a war commanding Nina's full attention and input nonetheless. The woman seemed to be part-shark; now that most of her involvement in the TV show had been diminished, she'd shifted her powers to that of wedding planning, lest she suffer the untold horrors of not plunging forward at any given second. She'd employed a small army of professionals that now set up base at the large dining room table, an invasion of their home space via pink and white binders and fabric samples.

Paul sat at the table, between some tufts of tulle and fake gardenias, and rested his chin atop clasped hands. Someone was shoving two different pieces of colored paper in his face; he was about 90% sure they were the same exact shade, but he wasn't about to point that out.

Jane came over and started rubbing his shoulder absently. "There was a review in the paper this morning that had my face in it. Front page and everything."

He looked up to her and grinned. "Did it give you a shock, seeing your face staring out at you from the paper?"

"Well, Nina called to tell me about it beforehand."

"But of course," he said, nodding his head with about as much sarcasm as he thought he could get away with. Then he continued, scratching his head a bit and trying to appear casual, "Say, are you still up for tea at the Lennon's this afternoon? I didn't know if you had, maybe, changed your mind, say, gotten cold feet or anything, which I would completely understand, really..." he trailed off, staring at her again and waiting for her to speak. She shrugged.

"Well, yes, I'm still up for going. Unless you...aren't?"

"No, no!" he said quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. "I have absolutely zero opinions on it whatsoever. Why would I?"

"...okay," she said, giving him an odd look. "Well. I was just wondering, since you don't know them so well."

"Er, I'm sure it'll be fine," he said, choking a bit, fending off a bubble of laughter barely suppressing itself from the horrible irony of it all.

"John's house is fabulous," Nina said, appearing, as usual, out of what seemed to be thin air. "You're going to love it. Absolutely beautiful. Just wait til he tells you the story of how they got it. Hilarious. Oh my, and the kid is adorable."

"Yes, I got to meet him at the party," Jane said, nodding.

"Oh?" Paul prompted, really failing at the whole 'trying-to-be-casual-about-John-thing' he was trying out.

"I met Julian and Cynthia," she said. "Cynthia is really lovely. I got to talk to John, too, which was nice." She made a strange face. "I'm still surprised he didn't bring tea up with _me_ , though."

Paul clenched his fists underneath the table, feeling as though he were about to explode. He was really, seriously regretting agreeing to any of this; he wasn't so sure he'd very well bloody survive an afternoon sitting across from John and his wife pretending everything was fine. Not that he held a grudge against Cynthia or anything, he reminded himself quickly. Just the fact that she was... well. Maybe he wasn't so sure _why_ his stomach clenched whenever he thought about her, but it had to be for some reason. And he didn't think about the _why_ so much when he had to sit on the verge of a panic attack throughout an entire afternoon.

His bad mood didn't do much to subside the rest of the day leading up to the stupid visit, and by the time 2pm rolled around, his stomach was in absolute knots. He could be an anxious person by nature, but this was completely beyond any stress he'd felt in such a relatively normal situation such as this before. He _liked_ social stuff like this, so he didn't know why he felt so bloody sick about it now. The fact that it could have been because it was _John_ was just as bad, and as they drove to St. John's Wood he felt on the verge of throwing up.

"Bit strange that they live so close to your studio," Jane wondered out loud, pointing at Abbey Road as they drove past. Paul felt his grip on the steering wheel tighten.

"Mm," he offered up.

"Are you quite sure you're alright, Paul?" she asked, and he noted that there was a strain of exasperation lurking in her voice. "You've been on edge all day. You know that...I mean, if you really don't want to go, we don't have to-"

"No, it's fine, it's really fine," he assured her, smiling. He was pretty sure it came out something more like a grimace. "I'm fine."

She raised an eyebrow and turned to look out the window more. "You certainly seem very fine..."

Choosing to ignore her jabbing comment, Paul set his eyes back on the road. Within just a minute he spotted the number for John's house, and pulled to the side of the road. For a moment, he relished in the strangeness of the situation; the last time he'd been sitting, waiting, anxious to see John in his house had been so long ago, it felt like a headless dream from another lifetime. Jane's hand on his arm brought him back to reality like a kick in the gut.

"Well, are you ready?"

"Course I am," he insisted, shaking his shoulders out, grinning at her. She looked a bit uneasy, still; he couldn't say that he didn't get _why_ she was worried for him, but still, he wasn't about to talk to her about it.

"Alright," she said, in that shrugging tone, and opened the car door and stepped out. He followed suit and took her arm in his as they crossed the street, hanging on to it with a touch more desperation than maybe he wanted to let on. He found himself worrying about infinitesimally meaningless things as they walked, such as if he'd overdressed by wearing a button-down and trousers, or if the wine they brought as a gift was offensive such as what if Cynthia was a teetotaler or something and she'd throw them out of the house or what if _John_ was sober now and the wine would be like a slap in the face-

"Are you even there?" Jane snapped, waving her hand in front of his face. He blinked and realized they were standing on the sidewalk. Oh god, he really needed to get out of his head. He looked up, and saw they were standing just outside John's house; the reality of the situation hit him like a shit ton of bricks, and he had to take a step back.

The house itself was a bit modest, outwardly, a two-story brown brick thing with neat white trimming. But, considering they were in St. John's Wood, Paul could only wonder how much it had cost; surely more than a guy barely out of his 20s could afford, however nice his job at the management firm could be. But either way, he was here now, for better or worse, and he swallowed his nervousness and took a step forward once more.

They stood on the stoop and rang the doorbell. It echoed throughout the house three times before it opened inwards to reveal a frazzled blonde woman with a young boy hanging on to the fabric of her capris. Cynthia and Julian, Paul realized a moment later. John's family.

"Hi!" Cynthia said, loudly, and smiled wildly. "Sorry 'bout this, _Julian_ , go to your room now, please." The little boy did as told, scampering away from her leg and into the house. Cynthia blew a strand of hair out of her face and placed her hands on her hips, exhaling loudly. "I'm sorry about that, his father isn't paying any attention to him so he's-" she waved her hands around her head "-going crazy, you know how it is. Come in, come in, please!"

Cynthia stepped aside, and ushered them in through the doorway. The inside of the home was less spartan than the outside; everywhere there was this explosion of _stuff_ , this almost obnoxious announcement that this was a _home_. _John's home_ , he thought with a strange pang in his chest. Children's toys, several cats, and clothing hampers overflowing with clothes seemed to be sprouting from every available surface like some sort of invasive mushroom. And this was only the foyer.

"Sorry about the mess," Cynthia said sheepishly, swatting two cats away from the front door. "We're still clearly in the process of moving, as you can tell."

"Aye," Paul said, politely.

"It's a _lovely_ house," Jane gushed. "And in St. John's Wood, too!"

"Yes, we do feel rather fortunate about that," Cynthia said oddly, then sighed again with her hands on her hips and turned to face the hallway. "Um...John should be down any minute. Why don't you two follow me into the sunroom? I've got tea already set up."

Paul and Jane looked at each other, nodding, then turned back to her.

"Sounds good."

"Alright, follow me!"

Paul, doing a better job at ignoring the fist clenching his lower stomach at the realization he was in _John's house_ being led around by _John's wife_ , grabbed Jane's hand blindly as they wandered through a maze of rooms in varying states of disarray. More than anything, there were boxes; some were labeled, Paul could see, most not, often thrown up and torn apart with things lying around them. Jane's hand flexed against his.

"Why is your hand so clammy?" she asked, frowning up at him. He dropped it and quickly wiped his palms against the fronts of his trouser; Christ, they were sweaty, when had that happened?

"Er, just the humidity, I guess."

The look she continued to give him pretty much let him know that what he'd said was insufferably stupid, but he supposed she was just going to have to continue to put up with that. He was watching her face, still, when Cynthia stopped them.

"Here we are!" she said briskly, opening a glass door where they'd arrived at what seemed to be the very back of the house. They followed after her, and entered what was indeed a very nice sunroom. It seemed to be a back porch that had been enclosed with thick panes of glass, and the sunlight streaming in cast a warm glow to the air, a peaceful quality, especially aided by the loads of houseplants and a small, cozy set of patio chairs surrounding a glass table. There, on the table, was a silver serving tray with a teapot, cups, and biscuits. Paul smiled to himself, stepping around the room; he was instantly reminded of George and Pattie's place, and felt much more relaxed.

"Cynthia!" a booming voice announced, and instantly Paul's momentary peace was scattered across the wooden slats of the porch. He felt the blood draining from his face, took a step backward. John had entered the room, and his gaze had instantly fixed itself upon Paul. His lips pursed outwards, coyly, almost wolf-like, then he turned to face his wife. "Cynthia. You didn't tell me we had guests already."

"I thought you were-"

"No."

"Well-"

"It's fine, it's fine, just next time, yell for me, y'know."

They stared at each other a long, painfully awkward moment, before Cynthia set her jaw and brushed past him back into the house. John didn't seem to have much of a reaction to that; he stretched his arms out, yawning excessively like a cat and arching his back, and Paul trained his eyes pointedly on the floor. When John's gaze settled back downwards, this time it was upon Jane.

"Jane, it's so good to see you," he said warmly, taking her hand in his. "I'm sorry I didn't get to talk to you after the premiere, but you were absolutely brilliant. Really. You were amazing."

Paul sort of got a kick at the way John could be such a casual, cool liar, knowing full well that John had spent the bulk of the premiere showing in the bathroom with _him_ , but obviously he wasn't about to go saying anything about that. Jane was charmed all the same.

"Thank you so much!" she beamed, eyes all alight; was she flirting with him? More distressingly, was _John_ flirting with _her_? Paul felt something very ugly indeed rear its head somewhere deep inside him, maybe his soul, he didn't know, but he kind of wanted to scream. Then, because what better time could there be for it, John's attention was back on him.

"Hello, Paul!" he said cheerily. "Good to see you, too."

"John," he said curtly.

"How are you? Seeing as you're the fiancé of an overnight celebrity, and all."

Jane giggled. Paul just sort of grimaced.

"Well, you know," he said, and didn't feel much like elaborating.

The truth of the matter was that he was having a very hard time maintaining eye contact with John, really even just in normal situations, but especially when looked the way he did now. His auburn hair was mussed up, as though he'd just been sleeping, and his eyes had a calmness about them he rarely saw, lending a sort of beautiful quality to his face, horrible as it was to admit. He was wearing a faded, baggy Black Sabbath shirt; this was _his_ John, he suddenly knew, and working up the courage to look that John in the eyes was a feat he was not up to. Especially when his fiancee was standing two feet away making bloody goggly eyes at him, too. In short, it was just all too much. As per usual.

"Did you see the photo of you two on one of the tabloid covers?" he suddenly asked, clapping his hands, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Without waiting for an answer, he walked over to the table and crouched beneath it, rooting around through stacks of papers at the base of it. Jane waited with great anticipation, before he finally popped his head back up and tossed a magazine to her.

An enormous color photo of Paul kissing Jane in the doorway of that mansion in Knightsbridge filled the entire cover of the tabloid. The headline, positioned somewhere around Paul's torso, read: HOT NEW TV STAR AND HER MYSTERY LOVER - LEARN EVERYTHING ABOUT BRITAIN'S NEW IT GIRL!

Paul's face did something- he wasn't really sure what- but when John looked at him, he started laughing, and sort of punched him on the shoulder.

"You're famous, lad!" he assured him, but he really, really did not feel assured in the slightest.

"Why am I your 'mystery lover'?" he managed to spit out, grabbing the tabloid from Jane's hands. "I- it's just-"

"Britain's new It Girl!" Jane squealed in return. "Isn't that amazing?"

"I really don't like that they used that photo," he muttered, staring it down. It felt strange- scratch that, it felt a lot bloody more than _strange_ \- to stare down at this tabloid, this bundle of paper that could be in every home in England by the end of the day, and see his own face, smushed against his fiancee's at a very unflattering angle in an _extremely intimate moment_ that had not been meant for the public to jeer at, and it was quite honestly making him nauseous again.

It certainly did not bleeding well help that John had come to stand right beside him, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to breathe on Paul's neck. Nope, that was not helping even a little bit. Especially with how _soft_ he looked right then.

"Sort of exciting, though?" John said ponderously, eyes drifting over to Paul's for the briefest moment, before he cleared his throat loudly. "For you, Jane, it's just...it's all very exciting. I'm very excited for you."

"I feel like everything's finally coming together," Jane sighed, staring once more at the tabloid before taking it from Paul and setting it down almost lovingly on to the table. "Britain's new It Girl," she repeated, pretty much just to herself.

"Very exciting, love," Paul echoed.

"So, why don't you two sit down?" John said, clapping his hands again. "Cyn should be back any minute with the milk."

Jane did as much, sitting down on one end of the blue-and-white striped loveseat, crossing her feet primly in a way that was much more proper than John's messy hair and band shirt deserved. If he noticed that himself, he didn't seem to care; he all but collapsed into one of the seats opposite Jane, hand immediately up in his hair, that wolfish smile back upon his face. Paul sat beside Jane on the loveseat, almost as an afterthought. He was still a bit distracted, as it went.

"Nina was talking to me about some of the ratings, she said-"

"Jane," John said firmly, politely, raising a hand. The wolfish smile had settled into something dissatisfied, not entirely there. "We don't have to talk about work constantly, y'know."

Jane's mouth made a little 'o', but she nodded her head, slowly, then just looked sort of uncomfortable. Paul looked between them; he wasn't entirely sure what John was going for here, if he was still playing a game with them or what. The chances of John being omniscient about anything at the moment seemed a touch unlikely; he'd switched to distractedly fiddling with the tray of biscuits. At the same moment Jane was looking to Paul with a flash of terror in her eyes, Cynthia walked back in with a carafe of milk.

"Julian is playing games in his room," she said coolly, setting the carafe down on the tray and looking to her husband. John sort of scowled.

"It's not that stupid PlayStation crap, is it?"

Cynthia didn't even look to John at that, just sat down in the chair beside him with a stony expression. Even just from this brief meeting, Paul felt there was something fundamentally _off_ about her; her smile seemed to be barely pinned to a face sagging with apparent stress and exhaustion. He was sure it was just from the general mental toll taken by moving several hours away, but there was still something about the way she and John acted around each other that was already giving him pause.

"Jane," Cynthia suddenly began brightly, as though a switch had been flicked on. "Your TV show was really amazing. You looked beautiful, really."

"Thank you," Jane said, her knee bouncing not-so-subtly beneath tightly clasped hands. "The party was lovely too, wasn't it?"

"The Beeb really knows how to throw a bash," John said, his eyebrows drawn together. "Well. Tea, anyone?"

"Oh, yes," Cynthia said quickly, rushing to fix the cups for everyone. "Totally absent-minded. Jane, Paul?"

"Yes, please."

"Um, yes, thank you."

As Cynthia poured out cups for everyone, John settled back in his chair and fixed Paul with a glance once more. It couldn't have lasted longer than a second, but the glint of those eyes felt white-hot on him, like they could burn. _Stop thinking like a bloody teenage girl_ , he scolded himself internally, sort of grimacing at John in return.

"So, Paul," John began, sitting up in his chair a bit, folding his right leg into a triangle over his left knee. "Jane was telling me that you work at Abbey Road Studios?"

Unconsciously, Paul realized to himself that there were two Johns he was going to be dealing with for however long this nightmare lasted; there was _his_ John, who sang in a shitty fake-metal band and chainsmoked like a chimney and never washed his hair, the John who'd taken a chance on this twerpy little kid from London and spent a whole summer hanging out with him in his aunt's backyard; and then there was this _new_ John, this John that acted like he'd been conked over the head and pretended not to remember any of that, who wore a business suit and had a house in St. John's Wood and a wife that, honestly, he did not seem very much to like.

But no one was asking about any of that. He blinked, and thought about Abbey Road, and reminded himself that this wasn't his John he was talking to.

"Yes, I do," he settled on saying.

"Do you make a lot?"

Jane and Cynthia seemed to simultaneously have some sort of nervous twitch attack that the conversation had turned to the topic of money, as unsavory and off-limits as that was in small talk, but John was still just staring at him, pleasantly. Paul had to laugh.

"Not really, no."

"What do you do there?" he asked, unfolding his legs. His inflection and tone were all wrong, so not John, like it was a practiced speech. Likely, given his profession, it very well _could_ have been.

"I'm a session musician."

" _'He's not paid to think, just play...a session man'_ ," John half-sang, tauntingly. Paul felt that pang in his chest again, hearing John sing, especially the words to _that_ bloody song, but he just rolled his eyes in response.

"That song fits me well, except for the fact that I don't play at the same studio every day," he said flatly, his own voice sounding a bit distant even as he tried to explain it. Whether he'd meant to or not, John had hit a sore spot. Well, knowing John, of course he'd _had_ to know that it was going to be a sore spot. His Cheshire Cat grin seemed to be back, God help him.

"I think I already told you that I work with a lot of musicians, hmm?" John said, leaning his head forward.

"Yeah, yeah."

"Have you ever thought about making music of your own?" he asked, and suddenly, he was his John again, eyes flashing and voice barely containing excitement. And, truth be told, Paul hated him all over again for that.

"Paul writes lots of his own songs," Jane said proudly, hand squeezing his arm. He could already feel his cheeks burning. Absolutely fuckin' lovely.

"Really?" John said, smile widening. "Anything worth recording?"

Jane said "yes" the same time he said an emphatic "no"; he ducked his head again and placed his hand at the back of his neck, trying to feign sheepishness and really just feeling supremely uncomfortable.

"No, it's- it's not so much that it's not good, which, I mean, most of it isn't, anyway, but also...I _like_ my job, I _like_ what I do."

"No, he doesn't," Jane said, and he nearly had to hold himself back from smacking his forehead.

"I- I don't..." he stammered, trying to find the right words that would keep John from pressing forward. "I don't... _not_...like my job, I do, I just don't particularly like what's happening at the studio right now." He paused, then looked to Jane. "Actually, I hadn't talked to you about this yet, but, um, well, George Martin was sort of talking about starting his own studio." He immediately starting waving his hands. "This is all _hearsay_ , though, really."

"Really?" Jane said, clearly shocked.

"That's interesting," John said, switching back to that toneless businessman voice. "George Martin has a lot of clout in London. Why does he want to leave Abbey Road?"

Paul shrugged. "Not my place to say, entirely."

"Hmm..." John said, reclining in his chair once more, head resting on his interlaced hands, eyebrows drawn together. "What are the chances, would you say, of his leaving actually coming to fruition?"

Christ, ten years ago, Paul would have thought he'd have been _dead_ before hearing John say a word like _fruition_ , but here they were, apparently. Trying not to look too bothered about it, he shifted in his seat. As he thought, Cynthia began distributing tea; he drank it gratefully, though it had way too much milk and not enough sugar. He poured some more into his cup as he began to speak.

"I'll just say that the fruition of that relies on how well the album we're working on now does," he said, cryptic on purpose, not really feeling like throwing John much more than that. He seemed to take it in stride either way, sort of leaning forward in his chair even more excitedly now.

"So if the album does well, he gets enough credibility to leave and start his own studio?"

"Well, er, not quite, more the opposite, really," he said, sort of wincing. "But I suppose that could work too."

"So really it's he's not going to be _employed_ any longer if the album tanks."

Paul shrugged again. He was the worst liar in the entire world, and John knew that.

"Interesting," John said, nodding slowly, then shot back up. "Paul, say, why don't you follow me back into my office quickly? I've got some papers to show you, especially relevant with all this studio business you're telling me about."

Now he was really scared, because that wasn't business John talking, now; that was 1000% his teenage John, getting all crazy-eyed and clearly lying, and the fact that he was lying but that Paul didn't know what about was really, _really_ scary. He looked down at his cup of his tea, feeling his mouth curl into a frown, and Jane was touching his shoulder in that encouraging way that made him feel even crazier inside.

"That's alright, I wanted to talk to Jane alone anyway," Cynthia said, and John was standing up already, and without much thought Paul felt his legs carrying his mindless body after him. He didn't have much time to try and guess what the hell Cynthia would have to say to Jane in _private_ before John was shoving him into a side hallway he had not seen yet.

"So, change of plans," John said, and his hands were suddenly against Paul's shoulders, which were suddenly against the wall. His face was so close that he could feel his warm breath against his neck, and he flattened himself further against the wall in a vain attempt to put some space between John's thigh and his dick, which were much, _much_ closer than they needed to be.

A high-pitched "Mm?" from somewhere in the back of his throat was about all Paul could manage, incidentally, seeing as his brain had started short-circuiting the instant John's hands had landed on him. His entire body felt frozen; the closeness of John was all it registered, his brain screaming at him to _do_ something about it. John licked his lips once, slow, eyes wider and lighter than he'd ever seen, and, horribly, before he could stop himself, Paul felt his eyes get glued to the motion. Something deep in his lower belly hummed in response, and he was just about to duck and run for it when John took a step backwards and let his hands fall.

"Change of plans," he repeated, not missing a beat as he turned on the balls of his feet. "Clearly I don't care about business. Well, I do. Just not the stuffy stuff. Listen, Paul, I couldn't talk about this with Thing 1 and Thing 2 hanging around out there-"

"Hey!" he shouted in protest. "That's my fiancee."

"And my wife. I know. You are..." a smile overtook his face, something brighter and realer than he'd ever seen on John. "You know how I feel about you. In your musicianship, anyway. You know what I mean."

Paul let himself fall off the wall, walking further down the hallway and turning his back on John. "I don't understand what you're getting at with this. Why didn't you want to talk about this around them?" He stopped, then turned around. "Were you going to tell me why you didn't call?"

John's smile faded just the slightest, then snapped back into some fake approximation of the thing. Did he think Paul wasn't going to notice that?

"Er, no. Well. All in due time. Anyway, like I was saying, you know that I know that you are...the _finest_ musician I have ever known. Right?" Not giving him time to respond to that outlandish statement, John continued on. "Being a session musician isn't _you_ , Paul."

"You don't know me," Paul said, and it came out harsher than he meant. Upon seeing the look on John's face, he added, quieter, "Not anymore, at least."

"Well...I know the way you played the guitar and bass when you were only 14. And even then you were probably too good to be just a session musician."

"John, really-"

"I think you should become a solo artist, and I want to be your manager."

Paul stared at him for a solid handful of seconds, then burst out laughing.

"Are you _joking?_ " he said between giggles. "You think I should be a solo artist."

"Why not?" he said. "Jane said you've written your own music, right?"

"This is- with all of what I just told you about the studio, and George Martin, your response is to think that I should take this opportunity to become a solo artist?"

"Paul, I've been thinking about this for a lot longer than this afternoon."

He narrowed his eyebrows at him. "Wait a second...has this been...did you take Jane as a client just to get to me?"

Now it was John's turn to laugh. "Are you bloody _daft_ , son?" he said incredulously. "I didn't fucking know Jane was your girlfriend. Even if I had, she was assigned to me. I didn't seek her out." He took a step towards Paul, that wolfish smile back on his face, the one that was admittedly making Paul's head feel a bit fuzzy. "That's cute, though, that you think I'd do that."

"Fuck off," he said harshly, stumbling back a step. "You're deflecting, anyway. You're- I could never do that, John. I couldn't do that to George Martin, I couldn't do that to the people I work with-"

"Why. Not?"

"Because," he said, frustrated. "That's not how- it's not how any of this works. You can't just leave people who depend on you. You can't just let them down like that. There's a duty of...there's a promise you make."

"Oh," John said, nodding his head slightly. "I see what you're doing here. This is all, like, a metaphor for you and me."

"Fuck _off_ ," he said. "Seriously, John. This isn't a joke. This is- I mean, what the fuck are you trying to _do_ here, with me? Why are you acting like we're still friends? You lock me in a bathroom during my fiancee's party, you invite me to your house for tea under the pretense of explaining everything and then you just end up...proposing a business deal?" He laughed forcibly. "And even if I wanted to record my own music, John, it would not fucking be with you." At that, he started stomping down the hallway, past John and further away from the porch, further away from the woman who was supposed to be his whole world, and he felt so bloody angry that he wanted to scream, it was all these years of _hurt_ and _neglect_ building up in his chest into this unnameable and unavoidable trauma eating away at everything he loved and-

He stopped, leaning against the wall. His vision was spinning, knees weak and head fuzzy. _Not here_ , he thought desperately, feeling himself slide further down the wall. Before he realized what was happening, John's hands were on his shoulders, guiding him to sit down slowly, making sure he didn't pass out and conk his head or anything. Neither man said anything; John was breathing in and out, slowly, fully, exaggeratedly, and Paul focused on that, tried to match his breaths to it before his vision started crowding again.

After a minute or two had passed, he said a quiet "thanks," reluctant though it was. John had moved to sit across him on the other side of the hallway, and smiled grimly.

"I didn't know you still got panic attacks."

"Er...yeah. Yeah, sort of."

"Is that why you..." John trailed off, sort of gesturing with his hands. "When we first saw each other again, at your house...is that why you ran off?"

"Perhaps," Paul said, grimacing, and made pointed eye-contact with the floor.

"You used to get them, I remember," he said distantly, and it seemed more like he was talking to himself than anything. "Which was strange, because you were always so calm before a performance. I remember...I remember being really impressed, for that," he went on, mumbling the last bit. Paul just sighed.

"Makes sense to me," he said, shrugging. "I only get overwhelmed by things that are...real to me. Crowds aren't real, I don't care about them. I mean, I _like_ them, if anything." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "S'pose that's my ego talking for me, there. But when I get, er, panic attacks or whatever, it's always...like this, for example. Or thinking about my mum, or something."

"Yeah," John said, still sounding light years away from the conversation. When Paul looked back up he was picking distractedly at a hole in his jeans. He felt a smile tugging at his face, against all better judgement. He was supposed to be angry. He was _still_ angry, he supposed, but it felt less suffocating now. It was like he was decades older, looking down on this moment in time, this hallway. He took a deep breath, and nudged John's foot with his own.

"I'm sorry for saying you wouldn't be my manager. That was mean. I mean, you wouldn't, but not by any fault of your own."

"Really?" John said, looking up once more, but maintaining that toneless quality to his voice.

"Conflicts of interest," he said, nodding. "You know, like how Jimmy Carter had to give up his peanut farm when he became the president of the US."

John narrowed his eyebrows. "I don't think I see the relation between us and that."

"Well, you're already Jane's agent. And we're..." He sighed. "I still don't know what we are, John, I won't try to assume anything about that."

"Not friends, like you said, right?" he said, coolly.

"You don't have to throw my words back at me when I've just nearly bloody passed out, thanks," he scowled.

"But you meant it."

"I-" he said, exasperated. "I'm not the one who didn't call. I'm not the one who has to explain anything."

John's face was completely blank. Paul decided right then and there that that was a thousand times worse than any sour, biting, hateful or otherwise expression that John could pull off; when his face was blank like that, it was like everything that made him _John_ had completely drained away and all that was left was this bitter husk. And, God, did he really still want to be angry, but more than anything, he wanted to see John...himself. Not this scarecrow. He sighed again and scooched across the hallway so that they were sitting side by side.

"John," he began. "Are you listening to me?"

"I know I fucked up, okay?" he suddenly spat out. "Do you think I haven't had to live with that every single day of my life for the past ten goddamn years? Do you think I've been _happy_ with myself this whole time? I _haven't_ , in case that hasn't been obvious to you yet. I'm...I'm telling you that I'm sorry, from the very crux of everything I am, and I know that there's nothing I can do to make it better, I can't go back in time and slap my younger self and make that phone call, but...I'm doing everything I can now, okay?" He was talking quickly, and he sniffled a bit; Paul's eyes snapped over to him, and he wasn't crying, but he looked damn near close. "You have to trust me that I'm doing everything I can to make up for what I've done wrong."

"Christ, John," he huffed. "I-"

"I want us to be friends, again."

"...I do, too."

"And I know-"

"It's not going to be the way it was," Paul added quickly, before John could say anything else. He went still, and quiet, but nodded in response. Paul continued, slowly. "I don't know- I don't know if it ever can be, because...you _really_ hurt me, John, I mean like _lifetime achievement award_ for hurting me, but I know- you obviously regret it, so...I don't, I don't see any reason to throw away what we could have because of that."

After another quiet minute had passed, John said a quiet, "Thank you." When they were younger, the silent moments had felt more natural, less awkward, and there was no uncomfortable need to fill them; now there was all this drama clouding everything, all these years ruining everything. He realized with a pang in his chest, deep, deep somewhere in him, that he'd give anything to get back to those days. Back to where they once belonged.

"Paul?"

"Yeah?"

John was staring at him again, and the slightest hint of light was back in his eyes.

"You know, I hadn't said anything yet because Mimi raised me to be polite-"

"A real good job she did, there."

"But I'm saying something now, because- shut up- because, I'm sitting so near it and everything: the beard. _Why?_ "

Paul groaned and let the back of his head hit the wall. Although he was really quite annoyed at him for that, he was, admittedly, secretly happy that at least he was acting like himself again.

"Is it like a statement thing, like-"

"You, too, really?"

John grinned. "Jane hates it, too, doesn't she?"

"I think everyone keeps forgetting that the only person whose opinion on it matters is me."

"I barely recognized you when I first saw you!" he exclaimed. "You look like a bloody lumberjack!"

"Remember that Python bit about the lumberjack?" he said, grinning too. "My uncle played it for us that one-"

"You mean the one about the lumberjack who cross-dresses? My, my, Paul, I could only _assume_ before that you might be into that, but-"

"Oh, _god_ , fuck _off_ ," he cried, swatting at him. "Christ, you're the worst. I take back all the soft crap I said earlier. I think it's best we maintain a suitable distance between us. Six feet at all times. Actually, make that twelve- _ow!"_ he exclaimed as John elbowed in between his ribs. "You're only making my point, you arse."

"Worth it."

"I think the beard makes me look distinguished, anyway. _Arse_."

"A very distinguished lumberjack indeed, Paulie."

"This is a crock of shit coming from Mr. Lennon," he sneered, putting on fake airs and pumping his chest out. "With his _lovely_ house in _St. John's Wood_ , his fancy suits, his fancy job..."

"I can't apologize for doing well in life, little Paulie."

"I _really_ hate it when you call me that."

He grinned. "I know. Why do you think I say it?"

"You know that the 17-year-old version of you would have rather died than turn up like this, right?"

Something broken crossed John's face. Yikes. He'd hit a sore spot, apparently.

"Yeah, I know," he said, scratching the back of his head. "But...'selling out' or whatever is better than living on the streets."

"I didn't give up on my dream, and I'm not living on the streets."

"Well, you're living with your girlfriend's parents, technically," John pointed out.

" _Hey_ -"

"And besides, I don't- I never had your talent, idiot, I couldn't make a living doing what you do."

Paul narrowed his eyes. "I thought you thought working as a session musician is the lowest of the low."

"Still couldn't do it, son. My point was that _you_ could do a lot better than that, which I still think, anyway."

Paul leaned back, thinking for a moment. The hallway was still; it suddenly occurred him that they'd left Jane and Cynthia out there like 20 minutes ago. He really needed to stop leaving Jane at things, he thought sheepishly.

"Hey, er, do you think we should head back out there?" he said, jabbing his thumb towards the doorway.

"What? No. I still haven't shown you the papers I wanted to show you."

"I thought that was a lie."

"Why would I lie about that?"

"Well...I don't know."

"Of course I wasn't lying. Come on. Follow me, I'll show you."

And so they stood up, and Paul followed John once more down the hallway, through another one and finally ending up at a glass door with blinds. John unlocked it with a key in his pocket and they stepped in. It was an office, very stuffy, very un-John-like, if he did say so himself, until he saw an enormous stuffed King Kong, a statuette of a banana, and a host of liquor bottles hanging around in the corner. That was undoubtedly John; the rest of the office, with stacks of files and leather chairs and a big computer, wasn't John. Not his John, at least.

The man himself was rooting around in one of the piles right beside the computer before brandishing something triumphantly.

"Well, this isn't what I was looking for, but it's nice anyway," he said, smiling, and passed the piece of paper to Paul. A Polaroid, he realized, old and creased and yellowing. He flipped it over and was greeted with his own and John's smiling faces, impossibly young and, on his end at least, looking very dorky. He traced John's face with his finger, a big smile growing across his face, remembering the day it was taken.

"This was when I came back to Liverpool to visit before I graduated, right?"

"1994," John said, nodding. "You aunt took that."

"Blimey...I don't look a day over twelve."

"So is that what the beard's for, then?"

"Shut up. _God_ , you were so thin."

"Yes," John said, frowning. "I've gotten quite fat. It's sad, you're right."

"Oh my _god_ -"

John snatched the Polaroid back from him, cackling. "You don't have to lie to make me feel better, son."

"You were, like, anorexic then."

"And I'd never looked better!" he pointed out, setting the Polaroid back down beside his computer and continuing to rifle through some papers.

Paul stared at the photo for a moment, the tiny versions of themselves immortalized now on John's desktop, as though it were as common and everyplace as a mug of coffee or a post-it note. He thought about that day; the whirlwind of it, the excitement and the pain of seeing John one last time. He hadn't known it'd be the last time he'd see him for nearly a decade, of course, but when he thought back to hugging him that last time, before he'd gone back to Cynthia and his real life...there had to have been a part of him that had known. His heart hurt at the memory, and he had to turn around and start looking at something else to stop from picking at the wound.

"Well, shit," John said. "Of course I can't find it now."

"What is it?"

"Papers for me to become your agent."

" _John_."

"Just to think about, okay?"

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"Why?"

"I already told you this," he groaned.

"Just think, please?"

"Fine, fine, fine. That's _not_ a promise, but I'll think about it."

John smiled at him. "Lovely."

"Should we head back out now?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

When they arrived back outside, Cynthia had moved to sit beside Jane on the loveseat, and they were leaned close together and speaking conspiratorially in hushed tones. Jane's eyes caught his first, and she broke away, laughing forcibly. He quirked an eyebrow at her and sat in the chair across from her.

"Paul's going to hire me as his agent," John boasted haughtily, sitting beside Paul. Paul groaned again and buried his face in his hands.

" _Not_ true."

"Really?" Jane said. "So we would share him as an agent?"

"Plenty of me to go around," John said, grinning, and Paul could have sworn he caught Cynthia scowling at him for that. He couldn't blame her. "And your business and his would be completely uninvolved, I promise. Unless you wanted joint meetings, or something."

"No," Paul said flatly. "And we hadn't actually properly discussed any of this anyway, so-"

"I think it sounds like a good idea, Paul," Jane said brightly. "Even if you don't want to do your own solo work, of course. Just to have an agent would really help."

"Exactly," John said, pointing at Jane exaggeratedly. She giggled; both he and Cynthia rolled their eyes.

"I've been doing this for four years now with no agent and I've been doing _perfectly_ fine for myself," he muttered, mostly to himself, as it seemed everyone else had moved on to something else. Jane was rambling about the show, and as far as he could surmise, John was only paying about half his attention to that. Not that Paul had particularly noticed or anything, but his foot had gone beneath the table to start playing with Cynthia's. Again, he was sincerely _not_ noticing it; he was especially not noticing the tiny, warm smile John's mouth had crooked into, one he imagined was reserved for Cynthia alone, and that made his heart hurt again for some reason, so he had to turn away again.

"More tea, anyone? Biscuits? There's more milk inside, too," Cynthia said.

"How do you say we give them a little house tour?" John responded in turn; Cynthia's face took on an extremely despaired expression, while Jane squealed.

"Oh, that would be lovely!"

"I don't think-"

"Obviously, it's still a bit of a mess with the boxes and everything, but it'd be nice to show them everything anyway, hmm?" He then turned to Jane. "We haven't been able to unpack much, with me at work so much and Cynthia with Julian and everything."

"Which is exactly why we should maybe save it for another time," Cynthia said flatly, feet firmly beneath the sofa and far away from John's. Again, _not_ that Paul was noticing any of this.

"That just means you folks will have to come back soon some other time," John said brightly, putting on a fake-American accent. Paul caught his gaze, smirked and let his head fall. John nudged his foot over to Paul's.

"Well, of course," Cynthia said, then stood up. "I think I should be going to check on Julian."

"Tell him to come down here!" John shouted after her as she walked back into the house. When she was suitably out of earshot, he turned to Jane again with an apologetic grimace. "Sorry about that. Again, Cyn's a bit self-conscious about the house being a wreck."

"Oh, it's fine," Jane said breezily. "We completely understand. Right?" she added, looking to Paul expectantly. John copied the move with a touch of sarcasm, eyebrows up and waggling. He rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, it's still a lovely house. And you just moved from Liverpool, I get it."

"Say, John, why did you move here from Liverpool?" Jane asked, taking a sip of her tea. Something in John's face twitched just the slightest, and he swallowed before talking. Paul watched that intently, filing it away for later.

"Er, promoted," he said hoarsely. "As has been said."

"How has Julian taking it? I know it must be hard, especially at that age...actually, how old is he again?" Jane asked, shaking her head.

"He's turning eight next month."

Paul nodded lightly to himself, doing some mental math. Eight years ago was 1995; John had said he'd had Paul's number until '97, roughly. So that was definitely a baby shower he'd been purposefully uninvited to. John seemed to clue in that Paul had realized this, and kind of smiled apologetically at him, different than the apologetic smile he gave Jane; there was something there that seemed like he really realized he'd fucked up. It then suddenly occurred to Paul that between his almost panic attack and John's emotional soul-bearing in the hallway, he had _still_ actually avoided giving him a proper reason as to why he had not called during those three years. He'd really meant it when he told John that he didn't think it worth throwing away the potentiality for a future friendship over poorly-buried resentment, but saying that still didn't exactly bury that resentment any further.

John had opened his mouth as though he were about to say something else when Cynthia was walking in the doorway, trailed by a rather bored looking little boy. She took him by the shoulders and made him stand in front of her, smiling in that same very unhappy way.

"Say hello, Julian," she said, nudging him forward.

"Hullo," he said, in a very bored tone that seemed fitting of his shaggy hair and tired eyes. As it went, he looked a _lot_ like John; there was clearly some of Cynthia in there, especially in the smallish squint of his eyes and the way his mouth curled, but he still looked remarkably like a younger John, to the extent that Paul felt as though someone had kicked him in the head and sent him back to the 90s. Well, he supposed it would have been the 80s; he'd only ever known teenage John. He wondered briefly what it would have been like to have been friends with John when they were younger kids, maybe even what it would have been like to have been friends with John for an entire childhood...he shook his head. He needed to stop getting lost up there so much.

"This is the woman on the TV show Daddy works with," Cynthia said cloyingly, pointing at Jane, who waved a bit. "Remember? We went to her party last week?"

Julian nodded in that strange detached way little children seemed to do, like a bobblehead someone had flicked so the spring would buzz. "Yuh huh," he said. "Can I go back to playing games now?"

"C'mere," John said, waving Julian over. "Come say hi."

Julian walked over dutifully, toddling a bit, to stand beside John. John wrapped his arm around his shoulders and smiled big, bright; that was the smile he saved for his kid, Paul thought warmly. He tapped him in the center of his chest.

"You know the big music studio down the road I showed you when we first got here?" John asked softly, and Julian nodded again. "Paul here works there."

Paul smiled and waggled his fingers, delighted to see a grin overtaking Julian's face.

"Really?" he asked excitedly. "Has Nickelback ever come there to play their music?"

Paul scrunched his face up, laughing, turning to John and raising an eyebrow. John just shrugged.

"I have no idea where the boy gets his music taste. It's not me, I swear to god."

"Er, no, Nickelback doesn't...no. But do you know Jimmy Robbins? The guy who one British Idol?" He asked, but Julian's face had already went blank again, his attention seemingly lost to visions of Nickelback, god only knew why.

"I do!" Cynthia said excitedly. John turned and rolled his eyes so exaggeratedly that Paul half-thought they might fall out of his skull. "My friend Jessica and I went to see one of the tapings of the show when he was on it."

"Cyn's a big fan of the singing shows," John said, voice purposefully toneless.

"Well, I'm actually working on his record now. So whenever you hear one of the singles on the radio-" he grinned. "That's me playing the bass."

"Well that's exciting!" Cynthia said.

"Could be your own song playing on the radio," John said measuredly, then caught Paul's gaze and winked.

"Christ...you never let up, do you?"

"That's why I'm the best, Paulie- _Paul_ ," he quickly corrected, covering his mouth with the brunt of his palm. Paul felt his insides get all twisted up for a moment, terrified that either woman had heard his casual use of that infernally stupid nickname, but from behind his hand, he could see a brilliant smile overtaking John's eyes and he suddenly felt as though maybe it didn't matter so much.

"Can I go, now?" Julian said flatly.

"Yeah, yeah, go 'head," John said, pushing him away with his hand. "Your brain's leaking a bit out of your ear, though, m'afraid to point out."

Julian's hands flew up to his ears, then he stuck his tongue out. "No it's not!"

"John," Cynthia said, making one of those faces that looked an awful lot like ' _we've talked about this before and now it's like you're purposefully forgetting what I told you not to do.'_ Jane was fond of that face, too.

"He needs to be picked on, it's good for him. Kids with too much support end up horrid. Just look at me. I had Mimi and I've ended up _perfect_."

"Is that what you're calling it now?" Cynthia said, shooting back, although it didn't sound so much like she was joking anymore. John threw his hands up in defense.

"Something like that, maybe."

After that, the afternoon continued for another half hour, in the same strange and slightly uncomfortable place; mostly it was fine, as Jane and John talked about boring business stuff, but John would make the odd off-color joke or make waggling eyebrows at Paul and Cynthia would get all weird, huffing and hands wringing in her lap. There was definitely something larger at work happening between the two that Paul wasn't so sure about, nothing he thought he could comment on, but it still made him feel a bit unwanted.

They drank another pot of tea and ate another plate of biscuits, and then Jane was saying something about the time and he realized the visit was finally, thankfully, winding down to the end. He didn't mind so much when it was just John and him, but around the others John was more and more his "business" self than anything and it made Paul feel a bit dead inside. It was also proving harder to harder to keep under wraps the fact that they'd known each other for much longer than they'd let on; John brought up something about the Hellcats that Paul had agreed with enthusiastically, and he'd had to awkwardly explain it away as something John had told him about at the premiere party. Still, he had to wonder if he couldn't just tell Jane the truth, but then that brought up the awkward conversation of _why_ they'd been pretending to not know each other, and what of course the nature of their relationship was, both of which were questions Paul was not equipped to answer in the _slightest_ , so he continued to keep a lid on it and hoped John would do the same.

John walked them both to the door, leaving Cynthia to clean up and check in on Julian. As they walked past the hallway they'd had their strange little heart-to-heart in, Paul felt the ghost of two knuckles pressing to the small of his back, but by the time he turned around John was walking past them with a big fake smile on his face and running to open the door. He felt something unknown constricting his throat, remembering John's hands on his shoulders shoving him against the wall, the warmth and the closeness and realness of his body, but, like everything, he swallowed it down and tried to forget.

"I hope you two come again soon, sometime," John said cheerily. "You Ashers are good company."

Jane laughed, touching a hand to Paul's chest, and Paul smirked. "Yes, that's me, Mr. Asher."

"We'll definitely be back soon, John. Your house is really- it's really lovely, oh, and please tell Cynthia I said goodbye and everything. And thank you again!"

"Our pleasure," he said warmly. He turned to Paul, and his smile faded a bit before popping back up. Paul wanted to tell him to stop doing that, but of course that wasn't the type of thing that you were supposed to notice, when it was just this casual acquaintance, his fiancee's new agent. No one real, no one he was supposed to have spent ten years pining for, certainly. "Paul," he acknowledged, and that was all he had to say. Paul tipped his head and stepped out through the door.

"See you soon," he said briskly. "Tell Cynthia I said goodbye and thank you."

"Of course. Goodbye Mr. and Mrs. Asher," he said, and as he stepped away there was nothing even close to a smile on his face.

"See you at work tomorrow!" Jane laughed, and then the door was closing on their backs.

They walked back to the car in an absent silence, both probably too caught up in their own heads to say anything. It was only until halfway back to the townhome did Jane finally speak, in careful, measured tones.

"Do you..." she began, fingers twisting from her lap. Paul looked over at her, and was suddenly struck, as though it was that day back in the grocer's again, when he'd first spotted that auburn hair. He was struck by the idea of destiny, the idea that maybe this was all, somehow, for the best. He reached over and took her hand as she continued fumbling for the right words to speak.

"Do I what?" he prompted.

"Do you think there's something... _strange_ , about John and Cynthia?"

Paul looked back at the road, mulling that statement over and over in his head, then nodded solemnly.

"Y'know, I was just wondering the same thing myself."

And, boy, was that the understatement of the year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took me awhile to get right. hopefully worth the wait. 
> 
> I also plan to be putting out a master post thingy of refs with the next chapter. stay tuned ;^)


	11. Fixing a Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went in a very different direction than I originally intended it to, but all for the best I think.
> 
> i think everyone will like this one ;^)

Paul arrived to work the next day in a strangely chipper mood. He'd been feeling unbelievably better since he and John's conversation; though it was cliched, he completely understood now what people meant when they said it was like there was a weight off their chest. For the first time since that stupid birthday party of Jane's, he felt like he was finally breathing.

He thought, more than anything, that this was the best mindset with which to approach the whole uncomfy studio situation with George Martin. He breezed in through the doors of Abbey Road with a smile on his face; Freda gave him an incredulous look, asking if he was coming into work on LSD again, but even that wasn't enough to dampen his high spirits. He strode into the sound booth, not even putting his bag down, and walked right up to sit beside George M.

"Paul," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Feeling alright this morning, son?"

"I feel better than alright, actually," he said, and grinned as though to illustrate his point. One of the sound guys, Eric, looked over from where he was working and jabbed a thumb at him.

"Is this dude really coming into work high again?"

"That was one time," Paul said, shaking his head quickly, not losing his grin. "George. Listen. I talked to George- other George- this weekend. He...oh, shit. Um. We should probably talk about this in private."

George M sighed wearily, hand pressed to his temples, eyes closed as though it was all just too much. "Paul, what is this about?"

Paul leaned in, then stage-whispered exaggeratedly, "The new studio."

"What are you talking about?" he said, narrowing his eyes. "I- oh. Right. Yes." At that, he stood up, and motioned for Paul to do the same. "Why don't you follow me into my office so we can talk?"

George's office was a tiny, cramped affair right down the hallway from the sound booth in Studio 2, a worn placard on the white door bearing his name one of the oldest institutions at the place. That, more than anything, was what made the whole situation so unbelievable to Paul; that this man, who'd given three decades of his life to the place, could be ousted over one bad record.

"Sit down," George said in a worn-out tone. His hand was still pressed firmly to his temple, and he walked distractedly around the room a moment before pausing to sit down on the edge of his desk. "So, Paul...you talked to George?"

"Yes, I did."

"And what did he say?"

"He said that you were planning to, ah, start your own studio."

George M nodded. "Anything else?"

"That you wanted me and him to come with you."

He didn't say anything for a minute or two. It was a bit uncomfortable, truth be told, just sitting there with George M up on the desk, eyebrow furrowed and lost in thought. It was very much reminiscent of getting in trouble at grade school, and being sent to talk to the principal; sitting in his little chair with his hands clasped in his lap, he definitely felt very much like a ten-year-old again. Much like a ten-year-old, Paul did also admittedly have some issues with sitting still for long periods of time, and hadn't even realized he'd started clicking his tongue and bouncing his foot until George M fixed him with a very headmaster-y look.

"Paul," he said. "It's alright. I'm just thinking."

"Right. Yeah, I know."

"George was right. I did say all that to him, but I had wanted to talk to you one-on-one about it before he...nevermind. Paul. You were talking the other day about working to, hmm, how did you put it? 'Record my vocals and pass them off as Jimmy's for the record'?"

Slightly embarrassed, he sort of nodded and grimaced. "Well...yes. That was my idea at the time. But I've been thinking-"

"Obviously, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Right."

"In fact, I actually think we should do quite the opposite."

"...the opposite?"

George M stood up from his desk, and started pacing again. His chin rested between two fingers thoughtfully, eyebrows knitted so tightly together that they looked like one. Then he stopped, and turned to stare right at Paul.

"I'm going to tell you this because I trust you and I respect you, alright? But what I'm about to say may never, _ever_ leave this room. Is that clear?"

Paul nodded quickly. He couldn't even begin to guess what George M was about to say, and his entire body felt frozen still with nerves.

"Alright. I haven't told this to George yet, either, but I'll...I'll talk to him afterwards." He walked across the room, locked the door, and then came back to sit on the edge of the desk. When he spoke again, it was measured, careful, clearly something he'd given a lot of thought to. "We're going to throw the record. On purpose."

His mind babbled for something to say. "Throw it...?"

"We're going to make sure it sounds bad. On purpose. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

If Paul had thought he'd felt frozen before, he had no idea how to classify this new state of shock. "Uh...why?" was about all he could get out, and instantly cursed himself for sounding that stupid. But, really, truly, he had no idea what George M was saying to him, even less idea why he was saying those things.

"I've been planning this, Paul. I've been planning on getting out for a long time, but there's been issues of money, of course. It takes a lot of money to start your own studio, of course. So I thought, and I thought. And I...well, you might ask why I didn't just quit, right? Why I didn't just get out when I wanted?"

Paul felt himself nodding, mostly just to go along with it.

When George spoke again, it was even quieter and rushed than before. "I renegotiated my contract last fall. If I just quit, they wouldn't have to pay anything. But if they fire me..." He trailed off, waving his arms. "Do you understand what I'm talking about now?"

"Er...not really, no."

George sighed, chest rising and falling in two swift motions, then he continued. "I want to make this record sound bad on purpose, in which case I will be undoubtedly fired, in which case I will get a very large severance package, thanks to the renegotiated package. And then I will use that money to start my own studio, which I want both you and George to be at."

"...oh," Paul finally said, and George M just nodded. "Um..."

"Obviously I'll talk to you and George both more about this in the future, but for now, that's the basic gist of it."

"That's, uh..." he felt his vision swimming, head unbelievably heavy on his neck. "That's a lot to take in at once."

"I know. Just think it through, alright? I really want you to be there with us."

He nodded, and the movement, on unsure shoulders, felt like a monumental action that very well could have severed his head from his body. "Um...do you mind if I take a moment? I'm sorry, that's just- that's, like, a lot, all at once."

"Right. I'm sorry. Of course, take your time. Do you need to be alone?"

He stared down at his hands, which had unconsciously clasped so tight in his lap that his knuckles were white. "I think I need to make a phone call."

"To who?" George asked, eyes narrowed.

"My agent," he heard himself say. He supposed John was his agent now.

"Alright," he said, nodding his head. "Do they know about any of this?"

"Mm-hm," Paul said, taking out his crappy little Nokia and punching in a set of numbers he found he'd already memorized, thumb hovering over the call button. "I've told him about some of it. Should I not talk to him about it?"

George's gaze wavered, clearly thinking it out logistically, then he tilted his head and said in a very serious tone, "Do you trust this man?"

Not even missing a beat, Paul said, surer of anything than he'd ever been, "Yes."

"Well. Alright. If you trust him, sure. Say, who is he?"

"He works at, er, Arnold-Woodall relations."

George, suitably impressed, went to the door and unlocked it. "Well, call your agent, then come out. We still have to work, of course. Hopefully George is here already so we can talk more about this." And with that, he stepped out, and it was just Paul and his phone. Paul and his phone, and _his agent_. It was a horrible idea, he really knew that, arguably one of the worst he'd ever had, or been coerced into, but he really did need an agent, if George M was being serious with what he was saying. And so he hit the call button, and waited.

It buzzed three times, and for a terrifying moment, Paul was sure that he wasn't going to pick up, and then the dial tone clicked and there was John's voice on the other end.

_"Hello, John Lennon speaking."_

"John. Hi."

_"...Paul McCartney? Do my ears beseech me?"_

He found himself biting back a grin, even sitting in this tiny office with the world threatening to fall in around him.

"No, it's me. Hello."

 _"Well, this is a welcome surprise."_ He could hear some shuffling in the background, a door clicking shut. _"What's up?"_

"I've got some good news for you."

He could practically hear the delighted smirk settling across John's face at that, and could picture it even better in his mind when he closed his eyes. For some reason, though, when he closed his eyes and thought of John, it was always 17-year-old John, sitting across from him in his aunt's backyard, the late sun of the afternoon lighting up his eyes. There was a part of him that realized he was always going to look like that in his mind, and he realized he was alright with that.

_"I'd just like to let you know, first off, that whatever you're about to tell me is probably not going to live up to the wildest fantasies running through my head right now, but you should go ahead and tell me anyway."_

"Well...I'll just say it, I need you to be my agent."

John gasped, and Paul laughed. _"Need? You_ need _me to be your agent?"_

"Er, yes."

_"Is this like an arranged marriage bit? Like you've got to pretend that I'm your agent to get out of some social function? Because I will-"_

"No, no."

_"Or did you mean you actually need me."_

"Yes."

 _"Wow."_ He could hear that grin get 1000x bigger. _"Well, that's nice to hear. Very nice, actually. Um..."_

"I'm sort of in a pickle at work, at the moment. I told you about some of it yesterday, I know, but, ah...the situation has changed, a bit."

_"So that's where I come in?"_

"Yeah."

_"How so? What do you need me to do?"_

Paul craned his head over his neck, looking to make sure that the door was still closed. He swallowed, then continued in a hushed tone.

"George Martin, the head producer here, wants to throw the record we're working on. Like, make it sound bad on purpose."

There was silence for a moment, only the sound of static filling Paul's ear, and then John spoke again.

_"He wants to make it sound bad on purpose so that he'll be fired, right? And I'm sure that's because he has a good severance package, and then he'll use that money to set up his own studio. And he asked you to help him do that, which is why you called me."_

Paul exhaled sharply through his teeth. "Do you have any idea how long it took for me to understand that?"

_"Aw, it's alright, Paulie, musicians don't have to be smart. That's what agents are for. Including me, since I am now your agent, right?"_

"You're not going to be if you keep calling me Paulie."

_"I'm just going to ignore the fact that you said that and continue on. Say, how long's your lunch break?"_

Paul looked at the clock and frowned. "I only just got to work, man."

_"How long?"_

He rolled his eyes. "It's from 12 to 1. Why?"

 _"Perfect. Why don't you walk over to my house then? I usually go back there for lunch anyway."_ There was a beat of silence, then John added, _"Cyn'll be at work and Julian's at school. It'll just be us."_

Paul felt something strange in his chest realize itself once more, something he was really, desperately trying to bury. It choked his words, as he squeaked out, "Um...why?"

John's laugh was caustic and nearly impersonal. _"To discuss business, course. Don't worry, I'll make you food, too."_

"Um...okay. Yeah, okay. Right. That sounds good."

_"Alright."_

There was another horrible lapse of silence that neither of them really knew what to do with, and then John cleared his throat.

_"Well, I'll see you then. Just walk over and I'll have the door open for you."_

"Okay."

_"See you then, Mr. Asher."_

Paul blushed, kicking at the ground with the toe of his shoe. "Alright, you arse, see ya then," he said, then hung up.

He looked around the small room, face still uncomfortably hot, and felt himself sink into the chair more. Why had he had to have reacted to that so weirdly? John invited him over lunch to discuss business; the studio was just around the block from John's house, so it only made perfect logical sense that they would go back there to discuss business that was as sensitive as this. But recalling the almost covert way John had asked, and how he had immediately assured him that Cynthia would be gone, like they were sneaking around or something...well, that was probably why his face was still so hot.

Trying to ignore the strange buzzing in his chest, he stood up and walked back out to the studio to work. Against his better wishes, the buzzing had spread from his chest outwards to his whole body, the ends of his fingertips and his knees, and he felt...excited. It was illogical, he knew, but for some reason the covertness of everything was sort of intoxicating.

George immediately noticed, of course. What else were best friends for then to notice everything you didn't want them to?

"Someone told me you came into work high," he said, sidling up to Paul and nudging him with the very end of his guitar.

"Shut up," he said.

"Is that what the stupid grin on your face is about?"

"Wha- _no_ ," he muttered, purposefully straightening out his face. "Was I really grinning?"

"Like a fool in love, buddy."

He frowned at that. "Hmm."

"Is that what it was, then? Love or LSD?"

"Given the choice, I'd choose the latter," he said, scowling, and walked to find his bass from where he'd left it over the weekend.

"No you wouldn't," George said cheerfully. "You're an insufferable romantic. Was that _Janey_ on the phone?"

"No, it was not."

George's eyebrows shot up. "Really? Who was it then?"

Paul debated internally for a second whether to tell George about any of what happened, but immediately realized that he was, after all, a horrible liar, and that one way or another George would find out. So, he squared his shoulders and said, "Well, it was my agent."

George gave him an extremely incredulous look. "Since when have you had an agent?"

"Since...about ten minutes ago, actually."

"Why? Did you-"

"George Martin and I talked some more. About the stuff you had told me and, er, some more. He said he'd talk to you about it."

"And that stuff means you need an agent now?"

He kind of grimaced. "Yes, sort of. Well, I'd been debating it prior to this, but now...I definitely need one."

George looked a bit pale. "Christ, do _I_ need one?"

"Er...maybe."

"Well, who's yours then? Where'd you find them?"

"See, that's actually the funniest part of this..."

George's eyes widened slightly. " _Paul_."

"Hmm?"

"If you say...what I think you're about to say...you should _really_ think about not saying it."

Paul's grimace settled into something that he was not sure was actually a grimace, or a smile, or a frown; from what it felt like, he was not entirely sure it was a shape a human's mouth should ever settle into. The horror in George's expression only grew, the whites of his eyes popping out from his face.

"Oh, my god, Paul, please don't say it."

"George."

"I cannot believe you're about to say this."

"My agent is John Lennon," he said in a quick rush, and George groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" he cried out, sort of half-collapsing into himself. "Jesus _Christ_ , Paul, have you learned _nothing?_ "

"If I could explain-"

"Explain why the man you spent an entire goddamn _decade_ obsessing over, only to see again, and then say you totally hated and were never going to speak to again, is now your bloody _agent?_ "

Paul shrugged. "Sounds about right."

"Not even mentioning the fact that he's _already_ your fiancee's agent?"

"Right."

George burst out laughing. It was really awful; by the time it ended three minutes later, he'd ended up on the ground, sort of half-pinned beneath his guitar, tears streaming down his face. Paul just stood there uncomfortably, scratching at the back of his neck, feeling very poorly about his life decisions and asking George every five seconds if he was quite done yet, thanks.

"I'm sorry," he finally wheezed out, pulling himself up off the floor into a crouching position. "It's just- I mean, Pattie pretty much predicted this entire situation."

"You guys talked about this?"

"Well, duh," he said. "As soon as we found out he was back in town. And Pattie called it, she said, 'if Paul is as half obsessed with this guy as it seems like, there's no way he's staying away from him.' Harsh, I know, but her words, not mine."

"That's awful."

"Paul," he said, standing up and giving him a face. "Come on. You should have known this would happen, too." Something in his expression softened. "I mean, as much as I give you a hard time over it-"

"Which you do a lot, y'know."

"Yes. But despite that, I mean...it's always been pretty clear that you, uh... _care_ a lot about John."

Paul shot him a look. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Well... _y'know_."

"No. I don't know."

George groaned and rolled his eyes. "You spent _literally_ all your time in Liverpool with him, and when you weren't with him, you were with _me_ complaining about how you weren't with _him_." Paul grinned reluctantly, raising a hand to cut in, but George continued on. "And then, after he'd seemingly broken your heart and just kind of generally been a dick, you _still_ never shut up about him." He patted Paul on the shoulder. "It's alright, man. I get it."

Paul, flustered, tried to deflect by going to set up his bass. George, unfortunately, seemed to catch on to this, and continued following Paul around.

"And even when I moved to London for school and got in touch with you, what were the first words out of your mouth?"

He set his jaw firmly and purposefully did not answer that question, even though he knew it was not so much a question as a very judging statement, the truth of which did not make it any less hateful.

"Alright," Paul grumbled, the same time as George quoted, " _'Hey, have you talked to John Lennon recently?'_ "

"You don't have to keep bringing it up," Paul whined. "I was like, what, 17?"

"Old enough to know better."

"You sound like a grandma in a Disney movie."

"Because you know I'm right?"

"Yeah, okay?" he shouted, much louder than he'd intended to, then immediately retracted. "Sorry. That was an overreaction, I know. And I shouldn't be so sensitive about it. I still- I'm just...it's embarrassing, okay?"

"It's not embarrassing," George said, touching him on the shoulder. "I mean, it's sweet. In a weird way."

"It's not sweet. I'm a grown man, and you're right, I'm...still bloody obsessed with this guy, and you're right, he is an arse."

George looked at him, eyes soft, and then said something before he walked away that Paul thought about for a very long time, mostly because it was so cryptic, and gave him the kind of sick feeling that he wasn't cluing into something bigger than himself. George said, "We don't get to choose," and then walked away.

Paul, in the moment, not being especially good at come-backs, just sort of shouted, "Well, what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He thought about it the entire time they were in rehearsals. Well, maybe like 35% of the time; 50% of his brain power was spent with an eye on the clock and wondering what lunch with John was going to be like, and then the remaining 15% sort of half-mumbled to itself about George Martin/studio related nervousness. There was maybe like a particle of a percent in there somewhere for amount of brain power devoted to playing the bass and existing in real time; he was not terribly invested anymore in the Jimmy Robbins record, which was quite the feat considering how relatively un-invested he had been before.

But when that 35% of his brain was thinking about _'We don't get to choose,'_ and his fingers were just mindlessly tripping around the bass, he continued to feel that weird sick feeling. 'Don't get to choose' _what_ was the primary question he was concerning himself with, and the one he got stuck on. He just couldn't crack it. And so, just like that, it seemed that an hour slipped away; and then another, and another, until it was 11:50 and George Martin was waving his hands and telling them to break for lunch and then the weird buzzing was back in Paul's chest along with the sick feeling and he was really not doing well.

"Sardini's?" George said, walking up to him with his bag slung over his shoulder. He shot finger guns at Neil, the keyboardist, and nodded. "Neil's headed to Sardini's too. I decided we all needed a nice celebratory lunch since it's been such a rough week."

"It's only Monday."

"I know."

Paul shook his head. "I'm sorry, I can't. I have, um-"

"Oh my god," George said. "You're having lunch with John, aren't you?"

He winced. "Maybe?"

"You're the worst. Alright. I'll see you after lunch." He patted Paul on the shoulder again, then drew him close. "Be _safe_ , Paul."

"Safe?" he snorted. "I'm the safest person I know."

"With John involved? Sure, sure."

Deciding he couldn't let two of George's cryptic one-liners haunt him all day, Paul just rolled his eyes and pushed him away with the brunt of his hand, shooing him towards the door. "Go. Please. Enjoy Sardini's for me."

"Oh, we will," George winked exaggeratedly as they walked towards the door. "Have fun with _John_ for me."

" _You_ are actually the worst, I've decided," Paul said, and then they went their separate ways. Truth be told, he did feel bad for leaving George; they almost always had lunch together. But he seemed to understand, more or less, under all the layers of jokes. He knew, more than anything, that he was just being protective, because he'd known first-hand how badly John had messed with his psyche in the past. If someone like that was in George's life, there was no way in hell he'd be all fine and dandy about it.

Maybe that said something about him that he was letting this happen to himself when he wouldn't let it happen to a friend.

He sighed, and tried to brush that off. John, above it all, was still just a _guy_ he'd been friends with as a kid. Nothing more, nothing less. Not really. He was going to have lunch at his house, and they were going to discuss business. That was all.

The angry bleating of a horn shook Paul; he realized belatedly he was standing in the middle of the busy walkway crossing the road, and put his hands up apologetically as he ran across it to the sounds of some more very disgruntled drivers. His hands were trembling like stalks, and this buzzing, this sickness, felt like it was about to consume him. He put a hand to his brow and squinted up at the midday sun, felt a shiver run down his back, felt the warmth on his face, his neck, tried to embrace the buzzing and feel himself grounded. He wasn't so sure it was working; his head still felt detached from his body, floating far above and yet still rotted from the inside out by this plaguing anxiety. He shook his head and steeled himself.

There was one final street to cross, and then there was John's house, the sensible brick thing surrounded by other expensive houses on a street lined with huge maple trees, and he wondered once more what the hell 17-year-old John would have thought about all of this. He remembered John in '94, frail, skinny John with big bags under his eyes who shivered even in the sun, who had so plainly looked at Paul and told him there was no way in hell he had a chance of ever making it with his music. Even at that age he was so logical about it, so firm in his knowledge of _what he had to do,_ even though he was still just this punk kid who'd barely outgrown his looting years. He remembered that John being terrified, still, though, terrified of having to become a husband, a father. Paul wondered, briefly, if John was still terrified underneath it all.

He walked up to the front door, wiped his hands once, twice, on the front of his trousers, then knocked. It seemed that the moment his knuckles touched the wood, the door was already swinging open, and then there was John. John, standing there, grinning like an idiot, and just like that, he was real again.

"Hello, Macca," he said cheerfully, taking a step back from the door. "Come in, won't you?"

Against his better judgement, the first thing out of Paul's mouth as he stepped inside was, "It all seems so easy, now, doesn't it?"

"Mm, doors? Yes. I know you had some trouble with those in the past," John said breezily.

"Not that, ponce," he muttered, walking further into the house. There was an awkward moment where they both moved to stand in the same spot, sort of bumping each other, then laughing forcibly and taking two steps backward. John was nervous; it wasn't something he was used to seeing, admittedly, so he may have misread it, but there was a blush creeping up his neck and he kept weirdly clapping his hands together in a very un-John way that really only led him to think that he was... well, nervous. That made him feel strangely powerful, seeing as he was the one who was usually mortally impaired by his own embarrassment, and he grinned wildly.

"Is it weird that I still think of you as being taller than me?" he said.

"Mm. Not so much. Must be because of my hideously larger-than-life personality. Oh, and also the fact that I am still taller than you. But that's besides the point!" he shouted, turning his back and beginning to walk down the hallway. "We've got loads of work to do, and not much time."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Hmm?" John said, walking a few steps ahead of him. "Say, how does leftover pizza sound for lunch?"

"Sounds good. Did you say that you were taller than me?"

He followed a purposefully deaf John in through another door, about to say something more when he found they were standing in the midst of a very large, very nice, _very_ expensive looking kitchen. John moved around it with a stuttered speed, hands fumbling amongst cabinets and abandoning each one in turn when he couldn't find what he was looking for.

"This blasted kitchen is bigger than my first apartment," he grumbled under his breath, mostly to himself, then stopped at the fridge, from which he took out a large box of pizza and tossed it on the counter. "Dig in," he said with a grin, then continued rooting around in the fridge. "Beer, Paulie?"

"What do you have?" he asked, leaning across the counter and flipping open the pizza box. "Oh, god. Banana peppers? That's disgusting."

"Veggies are good for you. And we have, er, let's see...Corona?"

Paul wrinkled his nose, picking the banana peppers and sausage bits off his slice of pizza and tossing them back into the box. He had actually become vegetarian since the last time he'd seen John, but not necessarily ready for the bullying he'd get for that, tried to be covert in the sausage-removal. "Y'know, I've actually felt quite averse to Corona the past few months. Not sure what it is."

"Strange indeed. Hmm. I've got a few IPAs. One with, er...blackberry something." He shrugged. "Cyn brought them home from work. Care to try?"

"Sure," he said, and John threw it at him. "My, my. Suburban John gets fancy suburban IPAs."

"I'm not bloody suburban, you twit," he scowled, taking the lid off his Corona by slamming the edge on the counter. Beer fizz exploded everywhere, leaking down the bottle, and John's lips immediately went to wrap around it, not breaking eye contact with Paul as he did so. Horrifyingly, he felt his dick throb a bit at the sight; he quickly shuttered his eyes down, under the guise of just being really engrossed in his pizza, but John didn't seem to notice. It was only because he and Jane hadn't done anything the past few nights, too caught up between work and wedding stuff and whatnot, and he was feeling so randy at the moment that he was pretty sure anything could have set him off. Including John's lips...Christ. He took a long swig of his beer, steeled himself, then looked back up. Not even missing a beat, John continued talking.

" _Not_ suburban," he repeated. "Strictly, wholly _urban_."

" _Posh_ urban," Paul corrected. "Which might actually be just as bad, if not worse, than suburban."

"M'not fuckin' posh," he said, rolling his eyes. "And that's rich coming from you. Didn't you tell me you wanted to move to the country or some shite when you were little?"

He narrowed his eyes. "That's the opposite of both posh and suburban, lad. That's the real deal, right there." He paused. "And you remembered me telling you that?"

"What? It wasn't bloody 90 years ago," he said, taking another sip of beer.

"Well, hey, some offhand comment from like 12 years ago, that's pretty long ago." He leaned across the counter more, putting on a big shit-eating grin. "It's quite sweet, though, you remembering me telling you something like that."

John frowned and flicked Paul in the nose. "You're the ponce, ponce."

"Call it like I see it."

John's face softened, there, for just the slightest of moments, before he seemed to catch himself doing it and turned away again. He was different today than he had been before; there was a wall up, and he was less giving in emotion. It was a bit like talking to a brick with John's face taped over it. Well, maybe that was harsh. Essentially, he was just less _himself_ than he'd been before, but, again, maybe it still just wasn't giving him enough time. He took another bite of pizza and looked over at him thoughtfully.

"So," he mused. "Is it business time?"

"Mm, yeah," John mumbled, staring out the window. "Care to work in my office or in here? Or the, uh, the porch, if you want."

Paul shrugged. "It's a nice day out."

"Yeah, we can just look at some of the paperwork out there," he said, and sighed. His whole body seemed like a live wire, barely relaxing into itself, and he took yet another deep swig of the Corona. "I'll just go grab it. You can go ahead and head out there."

"Alright," he said, grabbing another slice of pizza and trying to ignore the halted way John was holding himself. He watched him make his brisk way down to his office from beneath his eyelashes, only pulling himself off the counter and heading towards the porch when he saw him disappear around the corner. He brought his beer and pizza with him, leaving his bag at the counter, and was grateful to be back outside as soon as he bumped the door to the porch open. With the sun shielded, the miserable late-summer September heat didn't feel all that bad, and he reclined back on the loveseat feeling quite relaxed after all. There was birdsong out there and everything, some poor sap out in the branches crooning his heart out to some ladybird who probably didn't give him the time of the day. Or whatever the bird equivalent of that was, he supposed.

"Here we are," John said curtly, arriving a moment later, with a new, full bottle of Corona tucked beneath his armpit, a stack of papers in one hand and pizza in the other. Paul grinned up at him, struck by the image of it all; John was still in his business clothes, though he'd rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and loosened his tie, and here he was with pizza and beer like a 20-year-old.

Paul pointed this out to him, and earned himself a scowl.

"I'm still basically 20," he said, sitting in one of the chairs across from Paul and kicking his legs up on the table.

"30 isn't basically 20."

"I'm 29, but thanks."

"Which is 'basically 30.'"

"Were you always this awful?" John asked, eyebrow raised. "I think I may have blocked some of this out." He paused, then clapped his hands again. "Alright. Business time. I'm your agent now, so we've got to do some paperwork quickly, before you have to go back to work."

And so, for the next 20 minutes, Paul steadily worked his way through a stack of papers, signing and filling things in and initialing and whatnot, all dreadfully boring, and every time he tried to joke around with John he just got this strangely serious look on his face and reminded him that he needed to do this all, again, before he had to go back to work. He grumbled into his pizza about it, not really able to do much else.

"So how much am I going to be paying you, anyway?" Paul said, breaking a long silence. John's eyes slid over to him warily, something flickering in them. He sat up a bit in his chair and leaned forward, looking sort of uncomfortable.

"You know that this hasn't...been about _that_ , right?" he said slowly, leaning in even more. Paul rolled his eyes.

"Right, right, I'm still going to have to pay you though."

"Mm, no, well," John kind of mumbled, raising a pen to his mouth to stick the cap in between his teeth. Paul swatted at him to stop.

"What was that you said?"

"I said, er, well, I figured because of your delicate financial situation we would, y'know...hold off on payments of any kind until you're settled in at wherever you end up," he said. His words came out stilted, falsely impersonal, and he wasn't making eye contact. This was something he was _really_ not used to seeing from John, and he quirked an eyebrow.

"John, what are you talking about? If you're going to be my bloody agent, then I'm going to have to pay you." He laughed. "That's sort of what this whole capitalist system is about."

"Well obviously you're going to pay me," he said, pausing to take a sip of beer, then continuing with even more exaggerated hand movements. "But, right, I mean, I think it's only logical and fair to hold off on paying me until you end up where you end up. Whether that's at a new studio with George Martin or, maybe, off on your own?" He shrugged, beginning to falter in his speech, speaking quietly and without much gusto. "It's just what seems fair."

Paul stared at him a moment, mind racing. "So you're perfectly content working for me...for _free_."

John's face twisted up at that. "Well, it doesn't sound good when you put it like that."

"Right," Paul murmured. The buzzing was back in his chest, like someone was trying to land a jet in the cavity between his lungs. It felt strange, but there was something weirdly comforting about it, and he smiled softly at the other man. "That's actually really kind, John."

"Don't have to go on about it," John grumbled, but he could see the blush creeping up his neck again. Then he shook his head. "Okay. That's all the paperwork, I think." He glanced at his watch. "It's 12:23. We've got some time. Care for another beer?"

Paul shrugged, passing his empty can over, and John left to grab them more. That would have to be John's third, then; a possible explanation for why his face was so bloody red. He wondered briefly if John did this a lot, business lunches back at his house with beer, but quickly dismissed it as definitely true. Feeling a bit emboldened by the casualness of it all, he shrugged his own sports coat off and put his feet up on the table, and had just started working on the buttons to his sleeves when John came back with two more cans of IPA.

"Pretty high alcoholic content on these ones, so go easy," he announced, tossing one to Paul and sitting back down. He didn't move for a moment, just stared at Paul, and then laughed. "I just had the strangest sense of deja vu."

"You do business lunches a lot, then?" Paul asked, opening the tab and taking a sip.

"What? No, no, deja vu from Liverpool. Y'know, when we'd sit in your aunt's backyard and drink and play guitar and whatever else."

"Oh," Paul said, pleasantly surprised that he was thinking of that, and grinned sort of bashfully. "Yeah, I was sort of reminded of that, too."

"And now, here we are, 12 years later," John said, and they clinked their beers together. A moment passed between them, some unknowable and unspeakable thing, and outside the birds continued to chirp. Paul felt a warmth spreading across his entire body, something stranger and even better than the buzzing, and it was a few seconds before he could break away from the heavy weight of John's eyes.

"It's...it's very nice, actually," he said stiltedly, then shook his head. "I don't know if I'd actually properly told you that yet."

"Told me what?"

"That, well...that you're back in my life," he said, a bit sheepish, but judging from the ever-growing smile on John's face he figured that had been the right thing to say. "Even with all of the...years of not knowing, and all the bad stuff...for better or worse, I am glad that we're friends again."

"So we are?" John asked, then added. "Friends, again?"

"Well, yeah," he said. "Unless you don't-"

"D'you think I'm daft? Course I think you're my friend. And, now, my client. In that order."

"Mm-hm."

"I don't give just any old clients my fancy suburban IPAs, you know." He took a sip, and winked. "You're special."

"Right."

Another moment passed, both sort of smiling dumbly at each other, and then John cleared his throat.

"So is that what you meant, then?" he said, and Paul furrowed his eyebrows.

"Meant about what?"

"Earlier. When you first came in, you said something about how it all seems so easy now," he said, then, seeing Paul's befuddled expression, elaborated, "Erm, when you said it seemed easy, now? Did you mean...you and me?"

Paul thought about it a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Well, sort of. Just the fact that I could walk up to your door from work and have you...standing there, and being real. Not just in my head, y'know? After nearly a decade it all seems very easy now, comparatively."

John looked up at him, then said, with a certain weight of total seriousness, "Good."

"Good?"

"Yeah," he said, and grinned. "That's good. It's the way it should be."

There were about a million more things weighing heavily on Paul's mind, then, a million more things he wanted to say to John and that he wanted, _needed_ John to know, but in that moment it felt like saying anything else would ruin it all, so he just let his mouth close and fall into another small, soft smile, and turned his head back down to his beer. Sometimes, he realized, it was better to let things go unsaid. Maybe that was why John wouldn't tell him why he'd never called; the decade of radio silence still _hurt_ , and he knew, somewhere, it was never going to stop hurting, but, in a grander sense, the unsaid things sometimes needed to stay that way. Not that he had any idea what it might have been, but the fact of the matter was that John was back in his life again, seemed to want to stay like that, and clearly felt bad enough about the whole thing that Paul didn't see any point in wasting any more time trying to get the unsaid things said. There was a mutual understanding, there, and his mouth stayed shut until John began to speak again.

"So, now that we're done being soft, shall we actually begin our business of the day?" he said, taking a deep swig of his beer.

"And what business is that?"

"The studio shite, lad," he said. "Or have you already forgotten?"

"Bit soft between the ears, you know how it is," he said, too gleeful to hold up the joke, though. Even though he was only on his fourth, the high alcoholic percentage was no joke; already he felt the grip on his inhibitions loosening, his limbs heavier and head lighter. John seemed to take note of this, poking his tongue in his cheek and kind of smirking to himself.

"You're still a bloody lightweight, even after all these years," he said, then started flipping through some of the paperwork again. "So, start from the beginning, will you? And explain slowly and thoroughly, I'm not as smart as my charming wit implies."

"Er, yeah," he said, nodding. "So, George Martin, he told me at first that he was worried about the studio firing him."

"Why did he think that?" John said, and his words were clipped and impersonal, scribbling on a legal pad. Paul went silent, only continuing when John stared up at him with a questioning look and sent a prompting kick to his shin.

"Yes, okay, I'm- well, they fired two engineers recently. There were blokes who'd been around for a long time at Abbey Road, almost as long as George, so it was quite the shock when they were fired. That's what I thought at first, anyway, was that George was just nervous and paranoid or whatnot because they'd been fired. So, I tried to comfort him, y'know, and I suggested that I would do a lot to help with the Jimmy Robbins' record." He sighed. "His main point of paranoia originally seemed to be caused by the fact that the recording is going really poorly."

"What did you suggest to him?"

Paul shifted in his seat, a bit embarrassed. "Well, I said that I would, er...record Jimmy's vocals. Like, sing them myself. And then it'd all be blended to sound like Jimmy."

John narrowed his gaze just a touch. "But Jimmy has one of the most recognizable voices in Britain."

"Yeah, I realized that soon after," he grumbled.

"I mean, he _literally_ won a singing competition with his _voice_."

"I know, I know," he said frustratedly, struggling to explain through the fog that was descending upon his brain. "But he was always drunk when he showed up, and the vocal work he did was so bad, I thought I could help..."

"Did you want your voice to be on it?"

"It wasn't about that," Paul protested weakly.

"I would understand, though-"

"I wanted to help George Martin, it wasn't about...bloody egoism, or anything."

"But you _do_ want your voice on a record," John probed, abandoning the legal pad on the table and leaning forward into Paul's space.

"Well, of course I do!" he exclaimed. "Everyone does! If I could I'd have my own career, of course I want that..." He sighed, running a hand over his face slowly. "But not...realistic. It's not realistic."

"Paul."

"I know what you're going to-"

"That _is_ realistic for you, Paul."

"It's not," he said lamely. "Even if...I mean, let's say I did have enough good songs, right? Enough for a whole album. It just wouldn't work out. I'm about to get _married_ ," he said, and for the first time the full weight of it finally descended upon him. He drew back, feeling his breath rate increase, but continued. "I'm going to get married, Jane and I are getting married, we're going to get a house on our own, and...and have babies, I suppose, we're going to start a life together." He shook his head vigorously. "It's all the wrong time to start something new, especially a bloody solo career. I mean, you have to get that, right? That's what you had to do."

"What did I have to do?" John said, quiet, terrifyingly still.

"You, well, y'know," he stuttered, scratching the back of his head. "You had to give up on your dreams. I mean, you said it yourself. This thing that's happening to me, it's the same thing that happened to you, ten years ago. You got engaged to Cynthia and so you had to get a proper job, forget about your music..." he trailed off, seeing that John was still so, so still, and waited for him to speak. He didn't, and Paul tried to continue rambling. "I think maybe I might be overstepping."

"Paul," he began, voice low and measured. "I understand that you're nervous about getting married, but it was not at all the same situation. Alright?"

"I mean-"

"No," he said, firmly. "You have talent. You have choices. You have _freedom_. I didn't-" he cut himself off, frustrated. "That was a hard time in my life. That was a really, really hard time in my life, and I didn't have freedom, I didn't have choices, most of all I didn't have any fucking talent, and _that_ is why I took the job that I had to, and why I have this life now." He took a deep, steadying breath. "So please don't tell me it's the same thing."

"Because of Julia," Paul said breathlessly, and John's eyes hardened into little flecks of steel, completely devoid of life and light. Paul could feel himself crossing boundaries, but his stupid drunk fumbling mouth certainly wasn't stopping now. "You felt that way because of Julia."

"Fucking _watch it_ ," he said, and his voice seemed to come from deep somewhere inside him, a dark and broken thing that didn't sound much like John at all. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Why are you still pushing me away?" Paul said exasperatedly. "Don't you understand? Christ, I know _exactly_ what I'm talking about." He made a frustrated noise, then grabbed John's knee, slightly intoxicated enough to do something like that, and forced him to look at him in the eyes. "I _understand_ you, John."

John's bottom lip was quivering, the rest of his face threatening to follow suit. When he spoke again, his voice sounded nearly wrecked. "Mary," he said, quietly, and Paul knew then that the brick wall was finally coming down. "I know."

"You and me," he said. "We're the same, I think. In a lot more ways than we think, sometimes."

"Yeah," John sniffled, head dropping slightly before popping back up. "Yeah, unfortunately."

"No, it's-" he sighed. "I think it's good. Maybe. I have to hope it is."

"Christ, Paul," he said, and another hollow, forced laugh seemed to come out. "I think we seem doomed to repeat each other's histories."

"It's sort of comforting."

John grimaced, looking off to the distance again, and started shaking his head. "For the record, it sucks that you feel that way about your impending nuptials. As someone who was in a situation similar to that one...yeah. It sucks." Then he pointed an accusatory finger at him. "That doesn't fucking change the fact that you have freedom over your life, Paul. That does not change, not matter how similar we are. You can still...you're only _26,_ man. You've got talent bleeding out of your ass and good looks and the ability to make every old lady you meet fall in love with you. Whatever you want to do with your life, _you can do_."

Paul gave him a shit-eating grin. "Good looks, aye?"

"I fucking hate you," John snarled, downing the rest of the beer. "Honestly, truthfully, you are the absolute worst. You didn't even listen to the rest of what I said to you, you little egoist."

"Just deflecting," Paul mumbled, shrugging. "Thank you, anyway." He paused, then took a sip of beer before continuing. "Is it bad, though? That I feel this way about getting married."

"I'm not a bloody head shrinker, am I?" John shot back, but took a deep sigh and let his head fall back. "Well. Again, speaking as someone who was in that situation...no, no, that's how everyone feels. I think. Maybe. Again, I'm not very good at this. _I_ felt that way, at least."

"Do they, though?"

"Christ, I don't know, Paulie," he said. "If you don't like her, don't marry her. There. That's my wonderful advice. Seems simple, right?"

"I love Jane," he said distantly, and John made a face.

"Er, Paul, really, I'm not your relationship counselor. That should be something kept between you and your diary." He pointed to the stack of papers. "Business? Remember?"

"Right, right," Paul mumbled, burying half his face in his hand. "Er, right. Where were we? Something about me becoming a solo artist?"

"We're going to put a pin in that for now, actually." John looked at his watch, and cursed. "Fuck. It's almost 1. Er...call again tomorrow?"

"No, I'll call and take off work," Paul said, surprising himself and clearly surprising John.

"Uh...Paul, I don't know how to put this kindly, but you know that you're not my only client, right?"

"What, do you have meetings the rest of the day?" Paul shot back. "Call off work, too. Tell them you have a very important business meeting with a prospective client. Old John wouldn't have even hesitated to do it."

"Old John?" he snorted. "Is that what we're calling him, now?"

Paul took out his phone, already punching in George Martin's phone number. He gestured expectantly at John. "Listen, you can blow off work or not, either way, I'm doing it."

John seemed to internally debate what to do all of five seconds, before he, too, pulled out his phone and started punching in numbers.

"Just so you know," he said, putting the phone to his ear and standing up to go inside. "We'll _actually_ be doing business, not having a therapy session about your relationship issues. Understood?"

"Right, right," he grinned, hitting the call button as John disappeared inside the house. The dial rung only once before George Martin picked up, and he began swiftly. "Hi, George?"

_"Paul? What is it?"_

"I'm with my agent right now."

_"Oh."_

"Yeah, right. We're working through some stuff at the moment, important business stuff."

 _"Mm-hm,"_ George said slowly.

"So, er, I won't be able to make it back to the studio today. I'm sorry." After a silent moment, he added, "This is all about the studio stuff, actually."

 _"I figured,"_ George's tinny voice said, then sighed. Another moment passed and then he said, _"Alright, I really don't care that much. I guess it's all work related anyway."_ He paused, then added, sternly, _"As long as you come in tomorrow."_

"Well, course."

_"Well, alright, Paul. See you, tomorrow."_

"See you tomorrow. Thanks again."

He hung up, and tossed his phone back on the seat beside him. He heard John's voice from inside the house yelling about something, so he stood and went to follow it. His movements felt like afterthoughts, sloppy with limbs coming unhinged, but he felt himself rather embracing it. Getting slightly drunk for a business meeting was the high life, the true sign of carelessness begetting fame; so what if it was with John, anyway? He heard him yell his name again, but from where he wasn't sure, this confusing mess of a house, and he found himself getting turned around in the wrong hallway. His leg went smack into a little side table, and he cursed loudly, loud enough apparently that John came jogging up a moment later.

"Christ, you alright?"

"M'fine," he muttered, rubbing the smarting pain in his thigh and wincing. "Bloody sharp table you've got there, mate."

"I talked to Cynthia about putting blades on the ends of our tables, but she wasn't game. Probably for the best, anyroad." He paused, looking Paul up and down. "You sure you're alright?"

"Just sore," he said, then turned back to look down at the table. "Oh, I knocked them all-"

"It's okay," John said swiftly, coming around the other side and setting up all the picture frames Paul'd knocked over when his leg hit the table. There was something nervous in his motions; it sort of seemed like he didn't want Paul to be looking at them. So, of course, that was just what he did, reaching over and picking up a black framed photo closest to him.

"Hey, that's-"

"Is that you and Julian?" he said, holding it up to John. It was a black-and-white photo, quite artistic looking; John was standing, all in black, in a backyard with some gothic plantage framing him. In one arm, cradled almost thoughtlessly against him, was a baby all in white, and a white baby carriage just barely poked out into the frame in the corner; the presence of Julian, presumably, meaning it had to be from sometime around 1995. John's expression made his stomach twist up; distantly melancholic, his features all shadows, like one of those photos you'd see from World War II of widows waiting in the window for a husband that was never going to come home.

"Yes, that's us," John said, taking the photo without pretense of hiding his obvious discomfort. He set it back up on the table gingerly. Emboldened by alcohol, Paul snatched up another framed photo. "Why are you-"

"Do you not want me to look at these?" he said, holding it up. "If you don't want me to, I won't."

"No, it's...it's fine, I guess, don't know why you want to look at old photos, though." He pointed at the photo Paul was holding, then said, "Our trip to Greece."

A sun-damaged photo of John and Cynthia sitting on a boat, both smiling strainedly against the glare. John in black jeans and a band shirt, Cynthia in sandals and polka-dot capris. They looked like kids. Paul squinted at it.

"Are you wearing granny glasses?" he asked.

"Aye, went through a phase of that."

"They're not half bad."

"You're right," he said, taking the photo back. "They're _all_ bad. The late '90s were a strange time, Paulie." He set it back down, and continued, sort of musing to himself more than anything. "I'd just gotten promoted at the company, right, and I existed on a diet of cocaine and...not much else, actually. Was a nice trip, anyroad."

Paul glanced over at him. "Do you still...y'know..."

John snorted. "Christ, sometimes I think it really is still just 14-year-old Paulie up there. No, no, I'm clean now, have been...awhile." He shrugged. "Julian got older, stuff with me and Cyn..." he trailed off, not apparently going to surrender any more than that. "I got clean. Just Devil's lettuce for me, now. And _this_ , obviously," he said, illustrating what he meant with a deep swig of another Corona.

"That's good," Paul said, hated the way he sounded, still just like a stupid kid. He was searching for something else to say, then just decided to pick up another photo. Not that he was going to totally admit it to John, but he liked doing this immensely; he could have spent all afternoon looking at photos of John over the years and having him tell stories, stories from the 10 years of John he'd missed out on. Obviously he couldn't say it in those exact words; it sounded pretty creepy, put like that. But he did, really, honestly, want to know more about him, wanted to get to know him again.

"Ah, that's Rings," John said, taking the photo out of his hands. "This is my best mate. Ritchie's a riot, I should have you meet him, actually."

This supposed Ritchie- or Rings, he was a bit confused on that- wore a red/white striped shirt, enormous sunglasses, shaggy hair, and a beard that bordered on goatee-territory. John was crouched to stand beside him, and looked happier than he'd ever seen outside of Hellcats rehearsals when things were finally going right, or in his aunt's backyard and Paul would show him something cool on the guitar. Rings/Ritchie was clutching a fistful of Monopoly money, and the two, genuinely, did look like best mates. As teenage-girly as it was of him, Paul did feel the slightest pang of jealousy that John apparently had this wonderful best friend, one he, _apparently_ , never had any qualms or hangs-up about calling.

"How'd you meet him?" he heard himself asking calmly.

"Oh, well, I went back to school after Cyn had the baby," he explained. "And Ritchie, er, Ringo, we were both doing the whole night-school thing and got on like a house on fire. Both young blokes heading back to school, with wives and kids." He shrugged. "You would like him."

"Does he play music?"

"Mm, drums, actually."

"Any good?"

He shrugged. "Decent, s'pose. We, er...we used to play a bit, together," he said, scratching the back of his neck and pointedly not looking at Paul.

"Really?"

"Just a bit, really. We've had a group together, on and off, over the years." He looked at Paul, then rolled his eyes. "Don't give me the bloody doe eyes."

"I am not."

John widened his eyes, blinking them rapidly, stuck his tongue out the bottom of his jaw and made a stupid face. He then snapped out of it with an angry, "That is _you_ , Paul!"

"You almost had me thinking I was standing in front of a mirror for a second," Paul said flatly, turning away sharply and heading back for the porch, then stopped. He turned around again and said, quickly, "You really don't have to bleeding well make fun of me for feeling badly about the whole thing, you know."

John groaned. "But this isn't even about that!"

"Yes it is!"

"How?" he shouted, throwing his arms up.

"B-because-"

"Because you're making _everything_ about it."

"Why are you being so fucking _mean?_ " he shouted back, stalking towards him. "You don't-" he shoved his finger in John's chest, Christ, too much alcohol indeed, this was where the looseness of everything would be his downfall. John still looked put-upon, mouth agape like he didn't think he was the bad guy, but still pushing him, still fucking _pushing_ him and taking a step forward and grabbing Paul's hand. They both looked down at it for a second; John was gripping so, so tightly, his fingers were curled around Paul's and he came to the belated, horrified realization of how _good_ that pressure felt, how _good_ it felt to be standing just inches away from John's face, to be looking down into eyes that were widened in terror, and then he dropped his hand. Paul took a step backward, and ran his hands through his hair.

It was another moment before he could speak, taking deep, shaky breaths, and he said, quieter than before, "John, you can't expect me to just stop being angry."

"But _why_ ," he said, and it was almost a whine. "Paul, I- I already told you that I'm sorry-"

"I thought that I could do it," he said softly, shaking his head. "I thought that I could get on, I thought that _we_ could get on, without you telling me _why_ , but I can't, it's still- still _fucking_ gnawing at me, and it's-" he stopped, voice threatening to break. "I thought that I could still be friends with you without knowing why you decided for ten years that you didn't want to, but I don't know if I can."

"Paul," John finally said, and his voice was absolutely wrecked, eyes rimmed with red, and would not, absolutely would not, meet his gaze. His hands went up to his brow, covering his face; his shoulders began to shake, and _still_ he wasn't telling him.

"Just tell me, please," he gasped, feeling his breaths increase. He took a step towards John, put his hands on his shoulders. "Why can't you-"

"I knew that if I called you, if we stayed in each other's lives, I knew that I wouldn't be able to stop myself," John said, his words too fast, falling into one another, but he had stopped shaking and his eyes were locked right in on Paul's. Shimmering, golden things, the terror of _truth_ in them.

"I don't- I don't understand," Paul said weakly, limbs feeling more weightless than ever, hands slipping off of John's shoulders.

"Please don't make me say it," he said, his voice hollow. "I know how you- I know how you felt, you thought I was leading you on, thought that I was messing with you for St-Stu, you just _assumed_...I knew that you were never going to feel the same way that I felt about you, I knew you never going to feel that way about...me. So I- you're right, I just ignored everything, I didn't call you, I got married and I had a kid and I tried to stop thinking about you because I was _scared_ and I thought I knew what I needed to do." He took a deep breath, voice still faltering but growing stronger and more certain as he continued. "And by the time I realized how stupid I was to think that it was too late, I'd lost the stupid bloody pamphlet with your number on it, and..."

"John," he said, his own voice sounding foreign to him, feeling an icy-hot shiver of fear run down his back, paralyzing him. "What do you mean...that I didn't feel the same way about you...that you did about me?"

"Because I know that you didn't," John sad, and his bottom lip quivered, his face still threatening to give even though his voice became even colder and more impersonal than before. "And I know you...still don't. And that's not your fault, oh my fucking _god_ , that's the worst part about all of this, it's not your fault even a _little_ bit and _you're_ the one getting hurt." He tilted his head, something in his expression softening. "And that's killed me, every single day, it's killed me that I've hurt you."

"John, you're still really not making sense," he said faintly. "How do you... _what_ do you feel about me?"

"I can't-"

"Christ, John, just tell me, please," he said, his hands on John's shoulders again, pleading with him, and then something in John's expression broke and that was the last thing he saw before John was taking a step forward to close the distance between them and his hands were in his beard and pulling his face forward into his and his lips were on his and then Paul's brain kind of broke.

The shock of it froze his body up, the shock of closeness and the surprising feel of John's lips on his, soft and cool and gentle, tasting like beer and maybe cigarettes and not at _all_ like Jane's, who always put on strawberry chapstick before she kissed him; no, this was _not_ Jane, John's hands cupping his beard softly, so much softer than he ever thought John would kiss, and for just a moment the rush of teenage nights spent dreaming of John's rough hands on his body came back to him, his whole body _aching_ for John on those afternoons they'd spend in the backyard, a stupid 14-year-old crush that was always so much more than the music; all of that remembering was suddenly right in his face, his mouth, the closest he'd ever been to the boy he'd waited a lifetime for, and he opened his mouth to reciprocate just as John was pulling away.

When he pulled away, his pupils were completely blown out, his lips the color of red Kool-Aid, and he looked the way that Paul thought only people in movies looked like when they'd just kissed someone, and he thought for a second that John was going to grab his face again when the distinctive sound of the door opening clattered through the house, and Cynthia's voice, yelling, "John, who's fucking bag is this?"

John literally _jumped_ away from Paul, his eyes going back to his briefly, looking more scared than he'd ever seen, and ran past him back to Cynthia. Something inside him died, right then, he was pretty sure, or maybe just like a light switch had been flicked off or a marionette had had its strings dropped, and he fell against the nearest surface; the wall, he realized, brought his hands to his face and saw they were trembling once more, clenched them and tried to make it all go away. His knees felt weak, face like it was on fire. _John kissed me_ , he thought dumbly, and felt his stomach flip over. _Why would he fucking do that?_

"Oh, hi, Paul," Cynthia said, appearing in the doorway, and he nearly screamed. "Oh, oops, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you- um, business stuff? Sorry for-"

"I was just leaving," Paul said, his voice threatening to shatter in his throat; he brushed past her, and stalked back to the porch, grabbed his things, then walked as fast as he could back down the hallway, slung his bag over his shoulder, and went right out the front door.

 _John kissed me_ , his brain screamed like a mantra the entire time it took to walk home. 40 minutes he walked, then, when he'd reached the townhome, he kept walking. _John kissed me, John kissed me, why would he fucking do that?_ John wasn't- he didn't want to say the word, couldn't force his brain to even _think_ that, but he knew that John wasn't _that_ , and he wasn't _that_ ; the shock of it had broken his brain, made him think that was what he wanted, and he didn't want John, not like that... Yes, he knew that, because he was getting married to _Jane_ , and Jane was a girl, a woman, and he had always liked girls, liked women, maybe even too much sometimes, and besides the point he wasn't _bloody like that_.

His fingers went to his lips, traced the aching rawness still housed there. His spine felt like a wire that had been stripped of its casing, too close and too sensitive, these little ripples of heat coursing through his body and making him feel like he'd been scraped of everything from the inside out. _John kissed me. Why would he fucking do that?_ He rounded a corner, pushed his body into the wall of an alley, tried to control his breathing. John was confused, he was confused; emotions had been running high, Paul had been practically screaming at him after all, that was never conducive to logical thought, that could throw anybody off of their rocker. He felt something warm staining his cheeks, realized a moment later they were tears, ugly, salty tears filling his mouth and clouding everything.

"Aye, mate, y'alright?" someone said, stepping into the alleyway. He looked up, saw himself face-to-face with a teenage boy, a boy who couldn't have been any older than 14 years old. He blinked, rubbing his hand over his face, and nodded quickly.

"Er, yeah, alright," he said, too polite to say what he meant, which was _'fuck off, please, thanks,'_ so he just brushed past him and rejoined the people of the street and left the 14-year-old boy staring off at him oddly.

 _John kissed me._ Were they going to talk about it? He didn't want to talk about it, he never, _ever_ wanted to talk about it, surely John felt the same, but, then, after all, John had been the one who'd kissed him, maybe he would...but again, John wasn't like _that_ , so he would understand, he would get it, he wouldn't want to talk about it either. The awfulness of it all seemed to dawn on Paul the longer and farther he walked, as if with each step he realized on a deeper level that things were never going to get to be normal between them again. And that, _that_ , that fucking hurt, and it made him angry at John, angrier than he'd ever been. He had just gotten him back in his life, had this dangling promise in front of his face that they were going to get back to the way they had once been and spend afternoons in the backyard and play guitar and he'd be his agent and everything would be alright, and then he'd had to go and _bloody kiss him_ and cock it all up.

A harsh laugh escaped his lips before he even had the chance to stop it. Christ. He was still a bit drunk, after all. And John was, too. The laughter turned to something relieved, a burst of giggles from his stomach that was so unbelievably grateful to be drunk, and even with all the strange looks he was getting on the street, he didn't fucking care, because they had been _drunk_ , they had been out of their heads upset and intoxicated and emotions had been running high so everything was fine and _explainable_.

"We're going to be okay!" he giggled, stumbling down the street, and began the long walk back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright once again i'm delaying this whole photos thing BUT with good cause, you shall see in the next chapter... 
> 
> also, at first i was kinda worried about the direction of this chapter as I think the first kiss is super important and i was a bit worried that this may have been too early......before i realized I'm almost at 100k words, so, eh, yknow. 
> 
> as always the overwhelming love and support i get from you guys literally means the WORLD to me, seriously. thank you all so so so much for commenting and being invested and everything <3 please let me know how i am doing! and offer constructive criticism! i seriously consider all of your comments as I write this thing.


	12. Cry Baby Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everybody! hope quarantine is treating you all well. to celebrate i've got another good angsty chapter lol
> 
> and here! is the link to a collection of the photos i mention/referenced for the writing of this story: 
> 
> https://eeirp.tumblr.com/post/616161942208479232/chaos-creation-in-my-backyard-photos

When he got home, Jane was sitting on the couch with her feet tucked beneath her and a book in her lap. She gave Paul a huge smile, one of those once-in-a-blue-moon type ones that made him feel melty inside, and he instantly felt whatever semblance of peace he'd built up during his walk disappear. The evidence of his infidelity, however one-sided it may have been, felt like it was all over his body, that she would take one look at his lips and flushed cheeks and trembling hands and _know_.

"Hello, love," she said, patting the seat beside her, and he sort of reluctantly wobbled over. He collapsed beside her, and she gave him a look that was equal parts worry and suspicion. She leaned in, sniffed his neck, then raised an eyebrow.

"Are you _drunk?_ " she asked, and he sighed and brought his hands up to cover his face.

"Mm, yes, a bit," he said, lips smushed against his palms. He dropped them and, seeing that the look on her face was really not fun, shook his head and explained. "I had a business meeting with, uh, with John Lennon. He's my agent, now." He furrowed his eyebrows. "Maybe."

"Oh, okay," Jane said, and began tracing a manicured nail over the veins in his hand, back and forth, and the motion was so soothing to his battered brain that for a moment he almost forgot how upset he was. Then she was saying something else about John and Cynthia, and he felt his chest constrict.

"Sorry, what was that?" he said, turning towards her. She sighed, and began brushing his hair behind his ear. Her nails, smoothing over the sensitive skin of his scalp, made him shiver a bit, but he leaned into the touch, relishing in it while he could. This was real; _she_ was real, she was his fiancee, and this was real, and what had happened back in that hallway had _not_ been real. She was looking at his hands, and seemed to speak with great hesitation.

"Oh, well," she said, sort of mumbling. "I hadn't wanted to tell you, or, rather, I was specifically instructed _not_ to tell you, but I suppose that if you and I are both his clients now you would want to know."

The constriction on Paul's chest now felt like someone had grabbed the tops of his lungs and was squeezing. "What is it?"

She sighed again, fingers carding through his hair. "Well, it's about John and Cynthia. You know how I told you yesterday that I thought there was something... _strange_ about them?"

"Mm-hm," Paul said, breathless now.

"Well, the reason, it turns out, that they moved here from Liverpool was because _John had an affair,_ " she said, lowering her voice to a stage whisper for the last few words, eyes shining with the glee of drama. Paul instantly felt all the blood drain from his body, his limbs cold and stomach sick just as it had been after John had _bloody kissed him_.

"Oh," he said, still frozen.

"Crazy, right? Apparently it was some woman from their branch, spending a year here from Japan, and she and John...well, _you know_ , and so John asked to be transferred here." She paused, tilting her head sadly. "Nina had already told me some, but Cynthia did bring some of it up with me. She said that this is supposed to be the second chance on their marriage. She had wanted to leave him, y'know."

"Right," Paul said, distantly, and tried to keep his hands from shaking beneath Jane's grasp. Her eyes narrowed in concern, noticing all, and she put her hand to the side of his face.

"Are you alright, love?" she tutted, running her hand over his face and smoothing the hair off his forehead. "You're- you're really clammy, and you're shaking like a leaf, should I-"

"Hangover," he said quickly, his vision getting all blotted again. "Um, right, still feeling sick from all the alcohol at lunch, I think I just need to lay down for a bit." He paused, looking to her. "Is that- is that okay, I didn't know if-"

"No, of course it's alright, love," she said, eyebrows still knit together in worry. "Do you want me to walk you up to bed?"

"No!" he shouted, and shook his head. "No, no, I'm fine, just need to...lay down."

"Well, okay," she said, and smiled sort of sadly at him. He felt like a monster, maybe something worse than a monster, he wasn't sure what that would be but that was how he felt right then, all black and icky inside like his insides were coated in turpentine. He stood to a shaky stand, giving her an encouraging smile that he was sure was the least reassuring thing in the world to see, and as he walked to the stairs, he could feel her eyes on the back of his head the entire time.

Once he got to the top of the stairs, he immediately rushed to the bathroom across the hallway from his room, threw open the door, and vomited into the toilet.

It didn't make him feel even slightly better, as it usually did when he was a bit drunk or sick or just generally not feeling well; basically, the feeling of having gotten the bad thing _out_ of him was not there. That black, icky feeling in his insides was still there, still coating his thoughts, and he crouched over the rim of the toilet, his hands shaking so bad he had to plant them on the floor and take deep breaths to try and even everything out. His thoughts, inevitably, trailed back to John, and a flattening blow of nausea made him vomit again. He sat there for an inordinate amount of time, face burning, sweat sticking his shirt to his nape, trying to compose himself enough to stand. When he'd finally stopped shaking so much, he reached forward and flushed the toilet, then stood and fell back against the sink.

He shifted his body around and braced his hands against the rim of the bowl. He raised his head to meet his own gaze slowly, and felt another sickening twinge in his belly. _John had kissed him_ , and it was like it was written all over his face. He thought of John kissing him, timid and drunk against his lips, and imagined the other woman that he'd done that to, too, the other woman who wasn't Cynthia. He felt sick, and he wasn't so sure if it was more the fact that _John had kissed him_ that was upsetting or the fact that it probably hadn't meant anything to him. Probably. He didn't know anymore. His head was just this confused, angry, jumbling mess, and recalling what John had said before he'd leaned in was fuzzy. Remembering Jane's words was far easier; _John had an affair_ , which was why he'd come here, to London, after all, and Cynthia had wanted a divorce, and _John had bloody kissed him,_ and things were so, so bad.

Unable to stand much longer of thinking about this, he yanked the cold water faucet on, cupped his hands and filled them with frigid water, ducked his head and splashed it on his face. He gasped harshly, a gut reaction, but the coldness against his burning cheeks was the best thing he'd felt all day, and so he did it three more times, washing his mouth out, too. When he felt the burning subside, he reluctantly looked himself in the mirror once more, and was steadily disheartened by the sight. He looked... _destroyed_. His eyes were damp and swollen, even buggier than usual, and his cheeks and nose looked like they'd have red paint splotched all over them. He raised a trembling hand to trace his lips once more, the harsh pink indents where his teeth had bit. Water dripped off his face in little rivulets, sticking the ends of his beard together, and his hand moved to cup it. The ghost of John was all over him, phantom lips over his and fingers curling at the edges of his beard, and he had the sudden and overpowering realization that if he didn't get rid of that _feeling_ he was never going to be able to kiss Jane again.

Trembling, still, he opened the cabinet above the sink and found his shaving cream and straight razor, long-forgotten in the back of the shelf. He took them out and arranged them neatly on the sink edge, then closed the cabinet again. He took a long, analytical look at his face, appraising it as selflessly as he could manage. It had been a long time since he hadn't had the beard, and he was pretty attached to it, but it felt like it was _burning_ now with the memory of John, and he wasn't sure he could live with that feeling.

Trying not to think about it anymore, he took the can of shaving cream and lathered a generous amount of it into his face, squeamish still at the thought of razor burn or nicks. As best he remembered, he took the straight razor and began at his right ear, working steadily at removing swaths of hair into the sink. He was about halfway done when the bathroom door opened behind him; he jolted at the sound and the blade of the straight razor went perpendicularly into his jaw.

"Fuck!" he yelping, razor clamoring into the sink just as Jane's hands went to his shoulders.

"I am so sorry!" she exclaimed, eyes big and then widening even further when she saw his half-naked face. "Are you _shaving?_ "

He turned his back to her, leaning forward into the mirror to see how deep the cut to his jaw had been, and nodded distractedly. "Yes, yes, I was."

"Again, I'm-"

"It's okay, it's not that bad," he said quickly, turning back to her, fingers over the cut. It was short, but deep, and hurt like a motherfucker. Now he just looked like even more like an idiot, half-shaved and bloodied. He picked the razor up out of the sink, tapped the hair off of it, and went back to work shaving. Jane sat behind him on the lip of the bathtub.

"I was just coming to check up on you," she explained, rubbing her hand into the small of his back.

"Oh, right, thanks."

"I thought you were going to lie down?" she prompted, and he shook his head lamely.

"Er, couldn't really relax."

"Well, um...Nina and the wedding people are coming over later. For dinner. Just to finalize some plans." There was a pause, Jane clearly working the nerve up to say something. Paul looked at her out the corner of his eye in the mirror, sitting small with her hands folded primly in her lap. "We've set a date. For the wedding."

Paul turned around to look at her, face dripping, mouth open a bit. He consciously closed it, swallowed, then crooked it into a weak smile. "Oh?" he said. "For when?"

"November 8th."

"Well, _fuck_ ," he said, before he had the chance to censor himself. He shook his head quickly at her disapproving glance, elaborating, "Well, that's just- that's really _soon_ , that's a lot sooner than we were originally thinking-"

"What, because you couldn't be bothered to actually marry me?" she huffed, closing in on herself, and he felt like screaming; his face was itchy and burning and he still felt sick and he _really_ just wanted to finish shaving off the blasted beard and now Jane was doing this, and he had to set down the razor again and crouch in front of her.

"Jane, love," he began, placing a hand on her knee. Some distant voice in his mind hollered something about how John's knee had felt beneath his hand, when he'd done the same thing to him just hours prior, but he purposefully ignored it. Jane looked at him, rolling her eyes, but then softened. "How many times do I have to tell you that getting married is all I want?"

She looked at him a moment, gaze flickering, then smiled. "You look so silly with just half the beard shaved."

He sighed. "Yeah. I know. Would you mind, terribly, if I finish shaving first, before we, y'know, talk about the wedding?"

"Yes," she said, and stood up. He copied the movement. "I'll leave you be, then."

"Oh, you don't-"

"I'm going to straighten up downstairs, before they all get here," she said breezily, stepping towards the door. "Talk to mum a bit." Her eyes flitted down to the cut on his jaw again, and she winced. "Are you sure that's alright?"

"War wound," he shrugged, and she laughed a bit.

"Alright, love," she said, touching his shoulder one last time, and then ducked out the door and headed back down the stairs. He didn't spare much time watching after her; he really just wanted to get the beard off his face now, and turned back to the sink and picked the razor up once more. As he finished, the date of November 8th hung heavily over his head, like one of those anvils from Saturday morning cartoons. _November 8th_ , he thought, _is only about nine weeks from now_. Nine weeks to get the rest of the bloody wedding in order. He could think of absolutely no reason on Earth why they suddenly wanted it _this_ early, although he'd bet all the goddamn money in the world that it had something to do with Nina.

He finished shaving with an irritated tap of the razor into the sink, then ducked his head and washed his face off once more. When his head popped back up he hardly recognized himself, and found his mouth twisting up unconsciously. Firstly, he hadn't done a particularly good job of shaving; besides the cut on his jaw, there was a whole range of nicks and scratches, along with a hard line of stubble left on his skin. The skin itself was ridiculously pale compared to the rest of his face, of course, as it had been untouched by the sun for so many years. But God, besides all that, he looked like a bloody _12-year-old_. The memory of _why_ he'd grown the beard in the first place suddenly seemed to overpower all else, and he ran a hand over his smooth chin regretfully, before reminding himself, firmly, that change was what he had needed. Continuing the entertainment of that notion, he impulsively took Jane's little scissors out of the cabinet, pulled a long strand of hair in front of his face, and started cutting. About two seconds later he realized that there was no way in hell he was going to be able to cut his hair himself without making it look like a rabid squirrel with razors had attacked him. Jane would cut his hair, surely; that was what she had done the first few years they had dated, anyway, so he took the scissors and headed down the stairs.

When he came down, he heard a loud, American voice, and realized with a twinge that Nina was already there. He reluctantly trailed into the dining room with his scissors, and almost directly ran into some assistant carrying fabric samples.

"Oh, Christ, I'm sorry," he winced, dropping the scissors in his pocket as the assistant scampered back to Nina. She was standing at the table beside Jane, hand on her hip, and gave him that trademark questioning look when she noticed him standing there.

"Paul McCartney?" she said, eyes narrowed.

"That would be me," he said, and walked over to stand on the other side of Jane. Nina still just stared quizzically.

"What happened to the beard?" she asked.

"Thought it was time for a change!" he chirped, placing his hand on Jane's shoulder.

"Does the cut feel any better?" she murmured up to him apologetically, eyes scanning his face. "You should put ointment on it, or something, a Band-Aid?"

"Nah, it's alright," he assured her, smoothing her hair back. "Really. I'm okay. But, um-"

"You looked better with the beard," Nina said flatly, and that was all she would say on the matter. With a flip of her hair, she swiftly changed the subject, walking towards the other side of the table. "Well. Since you're here, sit down. We have some important wedding details to discuss, Jane wanted you to be here for it."

Although he felt weird with his face still burning and his stomach still sick and his hair half-cut, Paul sat down beside Jane regardless. He figured it was best to stay on both hers and Nina's good sides for the foreseeable future.

"About the date of the wedding?"

Nina nodded, opening a binder. "November 8th is the perfect date. The 7th is the premiere of the finale of the show, and then we have the wedding the next day. Boom. It's the perfect story. The media will literally gobble it up."

"But...I mean...it's not all about the media, right?" Paul, said half-laughing, and Nina rolled her eyes.

"Obviously it's not, but we have to consider this as a career-move for Jane as much as a wedding, right?" she said, shrugging, as though what she was saying was the most straight-forward and logical statement of all time. "A fresh young TV star getting married right as she's breaking on to the scene is risky. I even talked to Jane, you know, about not doing it-"

"But that's-"

"But I understand that you really want to get married or whatever, so it's fine, we're going ahead with it." She pointed firmly at Paul. "But it's going to be November 8th. This can still be useful."

Paul looked over desperately at Jane, wanting nothing more than for her to back him up that this was crazy, but her eyes were downcast on her fingers, fumbling with a square of fabric. He looked back to Nina, flabbergasted.

"I'm- I don't understand, this is our _wedding_ , this isn't...it's not about the TV show."

Nina sighed, and leaned forward. "Paul, I understand this is somewhat uncomfortable to think about, but Jane is _famous_ now. She's going to be even _more_ famous by the time the first season is done. A famous person getting married is a lot more than just 'a wedding.' Does that make sense?"

"It doesn't have to be," he sputtered out, then looked back over to Jane. "Jane? Are you seriously going along with this?"

"I told you he wouldn't-"

"Paul, I don't understand why you're so upset about this," Nina said, narrowing her gaze. "This really only means good things for you."

"It's my wedding, not a bloody _national spectacle!_ " he shouted, and could see Jane flinch.

"Well," Nina said, exasperatedly. "Maybe you should think about marrying someone else, then."

"Why aren't you saying anything?" he said, turning to Jane. "Are you okay with this?"

"Paul," she said, quietly. "This is just how it has to be."

"No it doesn't!"

"Why are you upset?" she said, wringing her hands out. "We're getting our dream wedding, love, I don't-"

" _She_ is getting her dream wedding," he scowled, pointing at Nina, who just put her hands up.

"I don't have a horse in this race, Paul-"

"I can't take this," he muttered, standing up. "I'm going out. Please do not follow."

" _Paul_ ," Jane said, reaching for his hand, but he yanked it away. He couldn't handle much more of this without caving in on himself; he was sure that if he stayed in that house, sat at that table and listened to that _woman_ tell him that his wedding had less to do with him than it did with the bloody _Daily Mail_ , all the fucking while having the events from the day weighing on him, having the knowledge about John's infidelity weighing down on his fucking _soul_ , he was going to have an actual, legitimate mental breakdown, and so he walked right out the front door.

...

It was only an hour later, standing at George and Pattie's front stoop, ringing the doorbell impatiently, that he realized that not only had he forgotten his phone at home, he still had the bloody stupid scissors in his pocket. This was also, coincidentally, the first time since he'd walked right out the front door that he realized it may have been a bad idea to just, well, walk out on his fiancee like that. It seemed too late for that though; as he was fumbling with the scissors in his pocket, the door swung open, and Pattie was meeting him with a strange look.

"Oh, Paul," she said, looking him up and down and then reaching out and touching his shoulder. "What happened?"

He was so relieved to see her that he fell into her arms and just about started sobbing. George appeared a second later, confused, too, but led him in through the door and hugged him as well. For a moment that was all he could focus on; he willed all the bad thoughts away and just focused on how good it felt to be in a place that felt safe, with people he loved, and no more bloody drama. Finally he broke away and met both their gazes, still clearly confused by what was happening.

"Um, I sort of, um...I think I'm on the verge of having a mental breakdown," he finally settled on saying, slowly, and Pattie looked on at him worriedly while George started laughing. A second later he realized it wasn't a joke, and then adopted the same very worried look.

"Why don't we all go to the living room, hm?" Pattie said, taking her crutch from off the wall again and gesturing them all towards the next room. "And, er, how about some scotch?"

Paul nodded relievedly, and so he was led into the living room, all but collapsing on to the couch beside Pattie. George joined them moments later with the scotch, and was sure to pour Paul a glass first before they asked any more questions. He didn't think he could talk about John, not yet, maybe not ever; speaking things made them real, and as he was firmly reminding himself, what had happened between him and John had been drunk, unreal nonsense. Besides the point, speaking the man's name at that point still hurt, too much, even though as he drank it was with the hazy memory of John on his lips.

"Is it...is it Jane?" Pattie finally asked delicately, placing a hand on his shoulder. He was silent for a moment, staring down into his glass, before he nodded solemnly. Pattie opened her mouth as though to say something, but he stopped her gently.

"Yes, it's Jane," he said begrudgingly, scratching a bit at the side of his jaw, shocked for a moment to feel bare skin there. He shook his head and continued. "Um, well, it's sort of her agent, too."

"What happened?" George asked.

"Um, they set a date for the wedding." He laughed harshly. "And when I say _they_ , I mean Jane and her agent, as in, no input from me."

Pattie looked to George, then back at him. "What date?"

"November 8th," he said grimly, and George started laughing again.

"Is that a bloody joke?" he said, eyes wide. "That's, what, two months from now? Less than that?"

"This is just like the ultimatum situation," Pattie said quietly, mostly to George with her head turned, but Paul heard. He groaned in frustration.

"You're right," he said, hanging his head, then took a deep breath. "Christ, you're right. It's exactly- same fucking situation, I know, I know." He swiped a hand over his face. "But, I mean- the worst part about it, the part that I'm really upset about, is that they chose that date because it suits the TV show the best."

"How do you mean?"

"Our wedding, Jane and I's wedding, our bond before God or fucking whatever, has been chosen for that day because it's the day after the finale of the stupid TV show, and her agent thinks that that's what the media will like. She made it sound like it's going to be a circus. A _performance_. There's no doubt in my mind that that's how it's going to be...it'll just be another bloody performance," he said, muttering the last bit into his glass of scotch, and took a deep sip.

"Oh, god," Pattie said. "That's...that's pretty awful, Paul."

"And you know, I mean...that's just not me, y'know? I would rather be married by a slip of paper in the courthouse than have a big... _thing_."

"Did Jane say anything to you about it?" George asked, leaning forward. "Like, does she have an opinion on any of this?"

"She wouldn't even look at me," he grumbled. "She said that this was what was best for us. _Us_. Hilarious, right? I don't know if she...I hope that she cares, I don't know, I hope that she does."

"Is that what, um..." George gestured vaguely to his lack of a beard, and Paul groaned again and let his head fall backward.

"That was before."

"You look good!" Pattie offered up, but her voice was too bright and forced to sound real.

"No, I do not. I know that I don't."

"What's that cut, then?" George asked, referencing the gouge on his chin, and he buried his face in his hands.

"Jane-"

Pattie and George both exclaimed "She _cut you?!_ " at the same time, and he waved his hands wildly to shut them up.

"No, no!" he shouted. "She didn't- Christ, she didn't cut me, _god_ , I'd be at the police station, then, no, she...well, I was shaving, and she opened the door and surprised me, and..." he pantomimed the blade cutting his chin, and they nodded quickly.

"Ouch," George said. "And the, uh..." Then he gestured to the half-cut strands of hair along the back of his head, and Paul shrunk deeper into the couch.

"Bad decisions," he muttered sheepishly.

"You weren't kidding about mental breakdowns, Paul," Pattie said. "Do you want me to properly cut your hair, maybe? You'll probably feel better once it's off." She paused. "I do actually know how to cut hair, y'know, I wouldn't just be attacking you with scissors or anything."

"She cuts my hair," George said, then shook his head out like a model. They both giggled, and so slowly, dazedly, he nodded his head, and took another long sip of his scotch before placing it on the table and standing up. George went off to put some water for pasta on, and Pattie hobbled him along to the bathroom down the hall. She made him sit on the edge of the tub, put a towel around his shoulders, then sat beside him with a pair of scissors that looked proper for cutting hair. She worked methodically, talking quietly to him without expectance of a response, mostly just about a model from her last agency that'd ended up murdering her husband, and although it shouldn't have done it, it was the first thing all week that had actually, truly relaxed him.

After a few minutes, she drew away from him, had him turn around, then started on the pieces hanging in his face.

"Hope you don't mind that I'm giving you a fringe," she said after a moment. "It's the only cut I know how to give blokes."

"I don't really mind," he said, nibbling his lip distractedly. "S'better than what I did myself, that's all that matters."

Pattie laughed a bit, but her eyebrows were drawn together, pensively, and he knew that she was still worried about him. True to form, as she worked around his forehead, she ventured on, tentatively, "Are you still going to get married to Jane?"

"I _love_ Jane," he said, and it sounded lame even to his ears. He shook his head. "I mean, _of course_ we're still getting married. Even with the ultimatum, even with this, even if the wedding is just a media spectacle..." he trailed off, feeling dejected. "I mean- alright, even with that, none of it changes the fact that I love her, right? And that of course I want to be married."

"Right," Pattie said, but didn't sound very sure. It was annoying, for sure; even if he knew his reasoning wasn't very sound, deep down, he needed some sort of validation.

"Do you think that's...idiotic?" he asked.

She twisted her mouth up, brushing a piece away from his eyes. "No, no I don't." She looked him in the eye with a certain intensity he didn't often see. "Really. Seriously, I do not. We don't get to choose who we love, right?"

Paul furrowed his eyebrows. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That, that- 'we don't get to choose who we love.'"

She copied his furrowed eyebrows, drawing back. "How do you mean? It's, like, a saying, innit?" She shrugged. "Why?"

"George said the same bloody thing to me this morning," he murmured in wonder. " _Same_ bloody thing."

"Oh, Christ," she sighed, shaking her head. "We really are becoming the same person."

"That's- that's weird, I mean, I spent all morning wondering what he meant by that."

"Were you talking about Jane, then, too?"

"Um..." Paul started, then trailed off as the full truth of it hit him. George had _not_ been talking about Jane; when he'd said 'we don't get to choose,' he'd been talking about _John_. That gave him serious pause, the memory of the full conversation slowly trailing back to him. George had been taking the piss out of him for hiring John as his agent, that much was memorable, but then he'd apologized and then he'd been going on about how Paul had been obsessed with him as a teenager, blah blah... and then, the infernally cryptic 'We don't get to choose.' There was no way in hell that George had meant _love_ ; the feelings he had for John Lennon were _nothing_ close to love. Hatred, annoyance, irritation: sure. Love? No. His chest hurt a bit, though, in a way he didn't care to think about, and for the billionth time that evening he felt his thoughts trailing back to the soft feel of John's lips, the way he smelled the same as he had, always, the way it felt like deja vu from his summer in Liverpool even though they'd never, ever kissed...

"Paul?" Pattie was saying, waving her hands in front of his eyes. "You okay? You just sort of...went blank."

"Yeah, sorry, sorry," he said, ducking his head. "Um...haircut done? Yes?"

"Yes," she said, and as he stood up to look in the mirror, he could feel that her eyes were still on him, but he forgot about it for a second when he saw his reflection. "Oh. Wow."

"Looks a lot better, doesn't it?" she said, a hint of pride in her voice. "I told you I could cut hair."

"Yeah," he said distantly, running his hands through his hair. He looked _better_ , he was pretty sure, but with the fringe and all it was somewhat reminiscent of the haircut he'd had when he was a little kid. Still, better, he thought, although that along with his lack of a beard really sort of made him look like he was a 12-year-old. Still, _better_. Probably. He set his jaw, pushed his hair back, then turned to Pattie.

"Let's go drink!" he exclaimed, and she gave him another look, but she stood up and they went back to the living room and the scotch anyway.

When they got back, George was still in the kitchen, busying himself with a pot of pasta on the stove and something sautéed. Pattie sat at a stool beside the island and Paul went to fiddle with the kitchen radio.

"I like the hair," George said, waving to his head. "It's all even now."

"Mm," he responded distantly, flipping through a stack of jewel cases. "What are we listening to?"

"Is 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot' in there?"

" _Hell_ no," George shouted, pointing sternly at Pattie. "Wilco is too bloody sad. Especially since Paul is..."

"I'm not a bloody china doll. I can listen to Wilco and be okay."

"'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot' isn't even sad," Pattie argued.

"And since when are you listening to bloody Wilco, anyway?" Paul snorted, throwing CDs to his left as he searched for the right one. "I thought you hated American music."

"It's _2003_ , Paul. We're in a new millennium. It's _world_ music, not-"

"Blech, shut up," he laughed, lobbing a jewel case at his head: it was Blood Sugar Sex Magik, ironically, and he felt some long-forgotten memory kicking at his synapses. He remembered playing that album for John in his bedroom, right after it had come out, and then John had gone and run out on him; it was one of the afternoons that had cemented his adolescent fear that John secretly hated him. In those days, having John's opinion of him be positive felt like the most paramount achievement of his young life. He wished he could go back to that day and tell himself to stop being so bloody myopic. Fat load of good it had all done him; here he was now, twelve years later, still getting hurt all the same.

"We need something really life-affirming," George said, setting the Chili Peppers CD back in the pile and coming to stand beside Paul. He tossed a few things aside before brandishing one with a serious demeanor, nodding knowingly. "Here we go. 'Let's Dance.' The most life-affirming record of all time."

"That's not even _close_ to being the best Bowie-" Pattie began, but George shushed her.

"First of all, just because it's not the 'best' Bowie album doesn't make it not good, because that's the toughest competition of all time, and second of all..." he trailed off, taking the disc out and putting it into the CD player. It whirred for a second, he hit the play button, then the muted guitar strikes of 'Modern Love' filled the room then the drums were kicking in and George was taking his and Pattie's hand and leading them to start dancing along. "This is what I mean by life-affirming!" he shouted, grinning, and Paul couldn't help but grin back at him.

And for the next five or so minutes, he _did_ feel life-affirmed; all the stress, sadness, anger, terror, guilt, the _nonsense_ of life, they all melted away, and it was just him and his two favorite people in the world dancing horribly and clumsily along to the most life-affirming song of all time. _Never gonna fall for modern love_ , he mouthed along to the lyrics, and dear god, he had never felt those words more in his _soul_.

The moment didn't last, but then again, they never did. George's pasta started boiling over, Pattie started going on about her leg hurting, and 'China Girl' started playing. Paul swished his hips along to the song, but alone; he felt more buoyant, more clear-headed, at least.

 _Maybe things are going to be okay, after all_ , he thought. But then again, some awful part of his brain pipped in, maybe he was just feeling temporarily appeased because he was here, with George and Pattie; the next day, he was going to have to rejoin the real world, and not only have to deal with the fall-out of walking out on Jane, but the studio situation with George Martin, the horrible recording of the Jimmy Robbins' album, and... _John_.

But for now, he realized, he wasn't going to think about any of that. He watched George fixing them pasta, Pattie crooning along to Bowie, and he decided, just for tonight, that he was going to let himself be okay.

...

_Jane's hand was in his, leading him up a narrow staircase, surrounded by darkness on all other sides._ _She kept telling him that they couldn't be late._ _At the top of the stairs was a big stage, lit with a thousand lights and blaring his face on Jumbotrons in every direction, and Jane's hands were in his and she was smiling and she was telling him that this was what he wanted._

_Jane was dressed all in white, like an angel, and a woman, Nina, he thought, was hanging from the rafters._ _She waved her arms like a director, and shouted down that this was the part where they were supposed to kiss._ _The Jumbotron zoomed in on his face, sweating, clammy, and Jane's smile was deepening into the Cheshire Cat's, but Paul was reminding her, terrified, reminding her that he couldn't kiss her because all his teeth had fallen out and that if he opened his mouth everyone would see._

_A man was sitting on the side of the stage, grinning, and when he opened his hands, they were filled with Paul's teeth._ _He asked the studio audience if they wanted to know how he'd gotten them from him, and they all started cheering for him, and laughing, and Paul felt himself falling down through the stage._

_You aren't supposed to be here, someone was telling him, and he was pretty sure it was George Martin, yes, maybe, unless it was his father, he was telling him that he wasn't supposed to be on the stage by himself, he needed to get back to work. He knew that, he knew that he needed to get back to work, and he had this horrible sense of deja vu, but as he went to grab his bass he found that it was all covered in sticky tape and that the harder he tried to tear it off the more of it there was and soon it was covering his hands and he couldn't breathe and then the man was walking back into the studio and it was John and he was telling him something, something important, and his mouth was moving but he couldn't hear what he was saying, he was screaming at him to tell him what he meant, but he wouldn't and_

He awoke with a jolt, gasping hard into his pillow. For a brief, bewildered second, he looked around wildly and tried to gather where he was, because the walls were all wrong and there was a lamp on that wasn't his, before realizing that it was George and Pattie's living room. He sighed, deep and long, and let his head fall back. Remembrance slowly trickled back to him; he'd walked out on Jane, and now he was here, sleeping on a couch that was too short for his legs and not very supportive of his back. He shifted a bit, pulling a knit blanket closer to his chin, and forced his eyes shut again. He still felt submerged in his subconscious, the strange way he always felt upon waking as though his dreams were leaking into reality. His breaths were shallow, arrhythmic, and he felt the insatiable need to know what it was John had tried to say to him in the dream.

 _Easy, dummy_ , his brain told him. _He's trying to say the same thing he said earlier._

Behind fluttering eyelids, the scene from earlier replayed itself; the cramped hallway with photos of John's real life, and John, the man himself, standing so, so close to him, the warmth of his body that felt like the realest thing in the entire world. It all seemed so clear now, without the distractions and guilt and overthinking of waking life: he and John were the real thing.

Wait. _No_. Maybe? No, _no_ , he thought, frowning with his eyes closed. That was all wrong. John and him weren't a _thing_ , let alone anything real, and he couldn't let himself think that. Still, the fact of the matter remained that he couldn't stop obsessing and worrying what it all meant. John, him. He didn't know anymore. There was a time when he thought he did, adolescent nights wasted away dreaming of a life they could be in together, but now he was old. Well, he wasn't _old_ , but old _er_ , and he was supposed to know better. How did it keep coming back to this? He had walked out on his fiancee, and he should have been thinking about her, wondering how he could fix their relationship, but all his bloody mind could focus on was John. John, who'd cheated on his wife with another woman, and had kissed Paul like it'd meant _nothing_.

He smothered his face in one of the couch cushions and groaned into it. He needed a handle on his life; he could feel everything slipping through his fingers, falling in around him, with absolutely no control over any of it. The _not being in control_ bit of that sort of made him feel like he was going to have another panic attack. He needed to sleep, he knew that; the bit of sky he could see from the couch was a dark blue, slowly letting the lightness through, which meant he had to go to work in just a few hours. It was going to be a long day, he already knew that, and the best thing he could do for himself then was just to get some sleep. Even if that was the last thing on his mind.

He rolled over so his face was smushed against the back of the couch, let his breathing still, and before he realized it, slipped back into unconsciousness.

...

Not nearly enough hours later, he and George were carpooling to work, a bit hungover, much too tired, and disconcertingly quiet. They were in the latter's shitty Saab 900 that was older than either of them and sounded like the squeaking of an old man's knee joint when started; Paul had a leg pulled up to his chest so he could rest his chin on his knee, and his eyes fluttered open and closed periodically. The large black coffee Pattie had made him wasn't really doing much, incidentally.

The quietness of George was something he was used to, somewhat, at least. George had always had a bit of an image as being the silent, stoic type, and he supposed that was true, sort of, but in private, George was rarely quiet. He was just a thoughtful person, and with Paul, he could talk for England, really. Which was why his careful, pointed silence in the car that morning was so disconcerting.

"Care for the radio?" Paul said, his voice a bit ragged. He cleared his throat. "There's, erm...or if you still have that REM tape, actually, that'd be-"

"Something happened between you and John," George said quietly, and it didn't sound like a question. His eyes were still trained on the road, distant, focused, and Paul watched his profile for a moment. The air felt pregnant with trepidation, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I don't really know what you mean," he said, although it didn't sound particularly convincing to him, either. George's face remained pointedly emotionless, still just thoughtful, perhaps. He tilted his head to the side, tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, then turned on the radio. 'Hotel California' crackled over the speakers.

"If something did happen..." he began, then turned to face Paul for a brief second. "You know you'd have to tell me, right?"

Paul laughed a bit to himself, unfolding his leg and sliding down in his seat. The guitar solo to 'Hotel California' began, and he hummed along to it, his fingers sliding along unconsciously. George looked at him again.

"I'm not kidding," he said, and Paul nodded uneasily.

"Yeah, I know." He paused, running a hand anxiously through his hair, then added, quickly, "Nothing did happen, though, so...y'know. Nothing to say."

"Mm-hm," George said, fingers still drumming the steering wheel, and for a moment he thought that was the end of the conversation before he continued with a very serious, "But, the thing is, I'm pretty sure something _did_ happen."

He scoffed, feigning irritation. "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

"I don't really know," he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "Just a hunch."

He held his gaze on George's profile for a few more seconds, wavering, then turned back to face the window. His vision bounced along the windows and stoops of a whole flock of buildings before he turned back round again, frowning, and said, "That's bullshit, George."

"Listen, it's just observation," he said, holding his hands up off the wheel. "It seems like there's something more bothering you than just the whole situation with Jane. I mean..." he trailed off, mouth twisting up into something uncomfortable before he continued. "Well, to be honest, it seems like you sort of overreacted to the whole situation."

"Overreacted?" he said, barking a laugh. "You think I overreacted?"

" _Well_ ," he said, eyebrows raised. "Sort of, maybe."

"I was-"

"I understand that it meant a lot more than just her selling out your wedding to the media, right? I mean, that itself is pretty awful, but...I mean, it's not really _unsurprising_ , to say the least. And I...I think you know that." His frown deepened, reaching his eyebrows. "But you were...you were really upset last night. And Paul, god, how long have we known each other? Twelve years?"

"Yeah," he mumbled.

"We've known each other twelve years, and I have never seen you so upset as you were last night. Like, genuinely upset. Crisis-of-a-lifetime upset. And, _historically_ , the only person that's ever really set you off like that has been...well, _John_."

As he was saying this, he was simultaneously pulling into the parking lot of Abbey Road, and Paul took the opportunity to just open the door and step out of the car rather than respond to what George had said. He heard a "Hey!" being called after him, but firmly ignored it, and continued in his brisk and rather upset stomping towards the front door. He was halfway through the doorway when he felt a hand on his shoulder pulling him back, twisting him around to stare face-to-face.

" _Paul_ ," George began, and he just started shaking his head forcefully, shrugging George's hand off of him.

"Listen, I don't-" He took a sharp breath. "I don't particularly want to talk about it, okay?"

"You don't-"

"Something did happen, alright? You were right, you were fucking right, you hit the nail on the head, you know more than I do," he huffed, falling back against the door. George's face had settled into something like you'd just told him his grandmother was in a fatal hit-and-run. He reached out to touch his shoulder.

"You really don't want to talk about it?" George said.

"Not really, no."

"Well," he said, grimacing a bit and looking past Paul's shoulder. "I'm afraid I might have some bad news for you, then..."

"What is-"

And then he turned around, and saw that none other than John _fucking_ Lennon was standing at the reception desk, talking and grinning with Freda, and Paul felt every ounce of blood in his body turn cold.

Bad day, indeed.


	13. Please Please Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off: sorry about the delay on this one! It's been a mix of computer issues (i'm stupid and broke my charger lmao) and writer's block. This was uh...a very hard chapter to write, but i've finally finished it and in the end i'm very happy with how it turned out. I think you all are really going to like it ;) it's a loong one. but I hope it was worth the wait! 
> 
> a/n: during my bout of writer's block I started about 10k words worth of a fic i've been planning for awhile, so as soon I'm done with this one I've already got a bit of work done on the next. you guys'll like it :)

There had been a part of Paul that truly, honestly, would have preferred to take off running for the hills than walk into work that day. He had a myriad of reasons, really; there was the fact that he was pretty hungover, and the fact that he'd gotten into a fight with his fiancee the previous day, and also the fact that he'd spent the night on a cramped couch that had left him as sore as an 80-year-old. But, well, all of that aside, the most glaringly obvious reason right then was the man sitting across from him, one he had absolutely zero interest in seeing right then.

This man, of course, was John. He was sitting across from him in a rolling chair in the sound booth for Studio 2, suit and tie on, briefcase in his lap. George Martin had stood up to lock the door, and John's eyes tracked the movement. There was something nervy and skittish about him that morning, Paul could tell, like a rabbit that was about to make a break for the cage door. He wouldn't stop tapping his foot. Paul had never felt more apoplectic in his entire life.

"You have to understand the delicacy of the situation we're dealing with," George Martin was saying, moving curtains across the window adjacent to the studio. "If anyone here were to know about what we're planning, y'know..." He sat back in his chair, drawing a hand across his face slowly in a sharp exhale. "Everything would fall apart."

"I get it," John said, shifting a bit in his seat. "Of course."

"Alright. Good." He nodded firmly. "Ah...George? Have you met Mr. Lennon, yet?"

Paul looked to George, who just smiled coyly and fixed John with a cold look. "Once or twice, yes."

"Well, good. Paul, I hope you don't mind, Mr. Lennon here called me yesterday and asked if we could set up this meeting to discuss the studio situation in more detail."

"Really, just 'John' is fine," John said, smiling, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Then, in clipped motions, he opened his briefcase, and began sorting through papers. "I hope you don't mind, first, if you just begin by outlining a general plan of what you hope to accomplish in terms of establishing your own studio, and how breaking away from, er, this place will help that." His eyes fluttered to Paul for a second, then fell back George M. "Paul and I discussed some of this at lunch yesterday, but not, erm...all of it."

"Of course," George M said, sitting up in his seat. He was talking, and Paul knew that this was pertinent information that he needed to be paying attention to, but he could barely listen even if he'd wanted to. He was mostly thinking about how he was going to bloody strangle John the next chance he got. He flexed his fingers, imagined how they would feel wrapped around John's throat, pushing him to the floor and straddling him- _nope_. No, nope. He blinked forcefully, feeling a burning warmth spread across his face. He stared pointedly at his dress shoes, chastised his stupid brain for having _those thoughts_. He was still bloody pent-up from the past few days, and that, along with everything else, the influx of emotions in his system that he wasn't properly sorting through, was why he could feel his cock throb as he furtively watched John pushing his sleeves up. Nothing else.

"Paul? Do you agree?"

He blinked again, met with an expectant look from George M. He nodded dazedly.

"So you're on board with eschewing any further production of the album?"

"Um..." Paul looked from face to face, all very focused on him: George M, very certain in his gaze, and George, giving him one of those worried/apologetic looks. Then John, who he could only bare to look at for a moment before scenes of the day before flashed in his mind. He let his gaze fall back to the floor. "I mean, if you think it's for the best."

"This is all dependent on if you want to leave Abbey Road Studios along with me," George M said, then added, in his careful fatherly tone, "Which is completely your own decision, and not one that you have to make because of me."

He looked to George, who was sitting still and quiet beside him. He nudged him with his foot. "Well? Are we doing it?" he asked, eyebrows up. George met his gaze and grinned a bit.

"Yeah. Why not, right?" he shrugged, turning to George M. "I trust your judgement. If you think we'll be better there than we are here..."

"You're going to have a sense of creative freedom and autonomy that has never been afforded to you here," George M assured them, and for a brief moment, he felt some semblance of hope in his chest at the thought of _creative freedom_ , but then he could sense that John's eyes had slid over to him. The weight of those eyes was heavy, an undeniable force, and he could feel the blush returning to his cheeks.

"You could even do solo work," John suggested, in a steady, toneless manner, although he knew from yesterday that there was excitement there.

"Not for me," he mumbled back, not meeting John's gaze, but could see in the corner of his eye that a smirk had settled in the wake of his comment.

"Why not?" George asked him, and he just shook his head quickly and hoped that was enough to clue him in. "What, you've been talking about-"

"Not right now," he hissed, and John's smirk only grew.

"You write your own music, do you Paul?" he said, tilting his head. Forget strangling; Paul could really do with sending a fist into that man's smug face. He was still, really, more than anything, just flabbergasted that John was sitting there completely fine, knowing what he'd done the day before. It was enough to send Paul into a headspin, and here he was, having apparently organized this stupid meeting itself sometime after kissing him. Christ. _John had kissed him_. And now he was sitting here, smirking like the cat who got the milk. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe curse him out, he wasn't sure yet, but then George Martin began before he could.

"To further that point, you wouldn't have to just be doing session work for the studio. Of course, you can, and I'd like you to, but I've been talking with some local labels about arranging some deals I think you two would be very interested in," George M went on, wagging a finger at him and George. "I see a lot of potential in you two."

"Well, thanks," George said. "So, yeah, either way, I think Paul and I would like to come along with you."

"Now, that _does_ mean you'd have to quit."

"Yeah, that's fine," George said, shrugging again. He didn't know how George was being so laissez-faire about the whole thing, considering this had been their dream job all through conservatory; he supposed he'd underestimated how badly George wanted to be out on his own, recording his own music.

"Paul?"

"Quit?" he echoed distantly, then frowned. "I don't- I mean, I'm about to get _married_ , how soon are we talking about quitting?"

"Why, Jane's got the money," George said in a hushed voice. "You'll be fine, won't you?"

"I'm just wondering, I mean, are we quitting now? Like, today?"

George M sighed almost impatiently. "None of this is going to start coming into action until at least the beginning of December, when the Jimmy Robbins' record is officially done. Remember, I need to be fired, under circumstances that get me my severance package. I can't just quit."

"Right," Paul said, nodding a bit. "So, beginning of December?"

"Thereabouts, yes."

"Okay," he said, quieter, running a hand over the back of his head. "Yeah, yeah, I'll go along with it."

"Does this mean we get to stop working on that rubbish Jimmy Robbins' record, then?" George laughed, and he felt a smile tug at the corner of his lip.

"Well, yes," George M said, and laughed relievedly, before schooling himself. "Sort of. Obviously, we'll still do...some work on it. But not much." He turned around in his chair and began fidgeting with a section of the sound board, as if to underscore his point. "I was actually planning to talk to some execs about moving the date of the release up."

"You said it was going to be bad on purpose?" Paul said lightly.

"Mm, somewhat," George M said, getting all cryptic again. "It can't be too bad. But it has to be bad. Does that make sense?"

"Can you elaborate?" John said, crossing his legs and pulling out that damned legal pad again.

George M turned back round again, hands clasping and unclasping. It was a tic of his that Paul had noticed, subtle though it was, but clued him in that George M wasn't as certain about this whole situation than he'd previously not. Well, of course he wasn't; he was betting his entire life's work on a series of precarious events happening. Not that Paul wasn't doing the same, somewhat, but it wasn't going to be his arse on the line necessarily. He felt weirdly proud for the man, then, at least until John started talking more and he felt everything inside him go cold again.

He let his brain tune out, after that, and mostly just watched the clock. As much as he hated working on Jimmy's blasted record, he was positively itching to get back into the studio with an instrument beneath his fingertips. Really, anything was better than sitting in this stuffy meeting, all the while being much too close to J. Lennon, still hungover and a bit raw. Music was was beautiful in its logic; it was something he could get his hands on, make it make sense in its physicality, create a bridge between his melodramatic inner turmoil and the real world. And, even if John was being especially irritating about it, it was nice to write tunes to work through things.

At some point within the hour he realized everyone was standing up; he followed suit, belatedly, sending a grimace over at George as John was led to the door. He was about to walk over and begin his tirade of complaints when suddenly John was stopping, hanging on the frame of the door, and staring Paul right down.

"Paul," he said, loud enough for everyone in the room to stare at him. "Come with me for a moment, I need to discuss some paperwork with you."

He stood blankly in the middle of the room, unmoving, until George M laughed awkwardly, asking, "Do you need to use my office for that?"

Before he had the chance to offer a resounding and very forceful _no_ , John was cheerily agreeing that that sounded like an excellent idea, and without much consent, he found he was being led down the hallway behind George M and John and being let into his very small, very private office, with no polite way of getting out. It was only when the door was closed behind him that he stood up and walked right to it, and slammed his hand down on the handle. John immediately sprung forward.

"Paul, listen, please-"

"No."

"I don't-"

" _No_."

"Can I at least-"

"I am not talking to you!" he cried, in an embarrassingly high-pitched voice, but that was beyond the point then. He'd just about been whisked into this _very_ small space with John against his will, and he was not even going to begin entertaining him in the notion that they were going to get to have a proper bloody discussion after what had happened.

John didn't respond for a moment. He held Paul's gaze for a wavering second, then broke away; back turned, he walked over to George Martin's desk and sat on the edge of it. The room was so quiet, so still that the only thing he could hear were his own harsh, stilted breaths, in and out. He wiped his hands up and down on the fronts of his trousers and gripped the door handle again.

"Please don't leave," John said quietly. Paul stared at him, then down at his hand on the handle. He let it fall. "I want-"

"You are _not_ talking," he said, firmly, and John finally looked up.

"Okay," he said.

" _I'm_ talking." He waited a moment, then continued. "I know that you cheated on Cynthia. With a woman," he added. "The woman from your firm or whatever. I know."

"Oh," John said, paling. "Paul, that's not-"

"I'm not done," he said sternly, and began pacing the room. "Um...so, I know that. And I guess that explains some of it."

"It does not-"

"And we were drunk," he continued hurriedly, raising a hand before John could finish. "I was drunk, and you...you were drunk. Which is why that happened."

" _Paul_ -"

"Did anyone ever teach you how to not talk?" he spat, stopping in place. He shook his head, then continued, again, "Listen, John, I understand that you've inserted yourself into this studio situation and that it would be childish of me to try and get you to _not_ be in it, but- but you and me..." He shook his head again. "That's not...it's... _not_."

A moment passed. John didn't look sad, or angry, or anything, really; he'd gone all hollow behind the face again, and he had half a mind to knock on his forehead and ask if anyone was home. He didn't, though, of course; he bit his lip, pacing to the other side of the room, and wrung his hands out.

"Not _what_ , Paul?" he finally asked.

"A thing," he said, then corrected himself. "Friends. I dunno. Whatever. We're not anything, John, I don't-"

"How are you saying this?" John said, almost pleadingly. He stood up off the desk, gripping the back of the chair with white knuckles that further betrayed his true state of mind. "Yesterday, we-" he stopped, took a deep breath. "Forgetting what... _happened_...everything prior to that, everything we said?" he prompted desperately, taking a tentative step forward, then furthered, almost accusingly, "You said that you wanted to be in my life again."

"Yeah, well, that was before you bloody kissed me," Paul laughed, and just about instantaneously regretted it. John went a livid shade of red, purple maybe; yes, his complexion was _definitely_ a deep plum shade, and if he squinted, there may have been foam frothing at his mouth, too. He pressed himself back up against the wall, palms flat, and took a deep breath. John had abandoned his grip on the chair, and was walking, slowly, but surely, towards him.

"Thought I was drunk, then," John said flatly, eyebrow raised.

"Well," Paul began, but it came out as more of a squeak than anything. John had pressed his hand to his shoulder again, a near mirror image of what he'd done the other day, but there was anger there, now, an anger he didn't quite know how to process, especially when John being this close to him again was making his head fuzzy and his knees weak. For one horrible second he thought he'd give anything for John to lean in and kiss him, angry and forceful and burning, thought he'd die if he couldn't get that, but then his hand was gone and the man attached to it was stepping back, breathing hard.

Something that sounded an awful lot like a breathless, angry "fuck" from the other man carried over from the other side of the room, along with some other mutterances he couldn't quite catch. He stayed pressed against the wall, terrified to move. He was also intently aware of the tent in his pants, one he didn't exactly want to go flaunting around the room with John being all aware, and tried to will it away with thoughts of Margaret Thatcher or something. It wasn't exactly working.

"I just don't understand you sometimes, Paul," he finally said, and he sounded weary, like an old man who'd been in the war. He had his back turned, shoulders hunched, and looked so miserable that Paul sort of felt like he'd just kicked a puppy. He peeled himself off the wall, coughed a bit, and squared his shoulders.

"John, I just...I just don't think it's a good idea," he began, but couldn't think of much else to say. When he was alone, when it was just him and himself to talk to and work things through, he thought he'd gotten close to processing all of this, compartmentalizing and sorting and filing and _making sense_ of something that bloody terrified him to his core, thought that he could chalk it all up to John and him just not being right for each other or that John was a bad person or that he didn't want it, but God. When John was here, and he was here now, _really_ here, those all seemed like pretty piss-poor excuses.

Because the truth was that he _did_ want him.

"You're so fucking stupid," John was saying, and shaking his head. "Do you know that?"

"Yeah," he said softly, and then started laughing. He couldn't help it. He just started laughing, and couldn't stop, and it became more hyenic as he went along, and John turned around to give him a strange look, eyebrows furrowed, saying "what's so funny?" but he couldn't tell him, couldn't even articulate it to himself, because John had really just hit it on the head with that one.

"You're right," he managed to gasp between laughs. "Christ, John, why do we keep doing this?"

"You keep getting pissed off at me," he said flatly, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt and reaching down for his briefcase.

"Well, you too."

John looked at him searchingly for a moment, then said, "I'm only pissed at you when you're stupid, y'know." He paused, and then his face settled into a familiar lopsided smile as he reached for the door handle. "I like the clean face, by the way. You look like yourself, again," and that was the last thing he said before he opened the door and stepped out. Paul followed him, running a bit to catch up to him halfway down the hallway.

"Where are you going?" he said. "I thought we were having a moment back there."

John rolled his eyes, clearly biting back a smile. "Your mood changes are giving me whiplash."

"I could easily say the same of you."

"Yours are worse because you think you're better at hiding them," he shot back, stopping, eyes flittering up and down Paul. "I may not always understand you, but I get that."

"Still-"

"I have work, son," he said, and began walking again. "So? Are we friends again? Hath the Great Saint McCartney decided to bless me with the holy presence of his acquaintanceship?"

"Well..."

"You fucker."

"No, it's-"

"Listen, Paulie, you can or you can not, either way, I suggest we have dinner at my house sometime soon."

Paul felt himself blanch. "Do you-"

"Don't fucking worry, I'm not going to try anything on you," he said sarcastically, although with an obvious strain of bitterness. He chose to ignore it. "I'll invite Jane, too."

"Right," he said, unsurely, then shuffled his feet a bit awkwardly. "Shall I walk you to the door, then?"

"God, Paulie, I'm not a bird you're taking on a date," he cackled, and Paul felt his face get a bit red. He laughed along sarcastically, then pointing the way towards the door.

"Down the hallway, to the left."

"You should be a traffic controller," John mocked, still cackling even as he turned to walk away. "I think the uniform would suit you well."

"Piss off," he grumbled.

"Sunday night, then? Dinner at my place?"

"We'll see," he said, but felt a grin cracking his face that gave it all away. John smiled at that, a small, genuine smile over the back of his shoulder before turning and walking away. There was a smugness to the way he swung his shoulders, a little ditty he whistled that Paul could hear even after he'd turned the corner. He stood there, for a moment, letting it all sink in: so he and John were fine again, they were just going to get to be regular mates again like he'd always wanted, and they weren't going to have to talk about the kiss, because they had both been drunk.

He felt a lump in his throat rise up, and tried to smile through it. _This was what he'd always wanted_ , he reminded himself, even as he stared at the long-gone absence of John and wondered why it still felt like the world was falling in around him.

...

In the end, Paul knew he couldn't stay hiding at the Harrison-Boyd residence for the rest of his life; just as a ball thrown into the sky must return to the ground, so did Paul trudge dutifully back to the townhome on Wimpole Street.

He was met at the door by Margaret Asher, of course, who coolly informed Paul that he had greatly upset Jane and that she had no interest in seeing him. Then, leaning in confidentially, she more cordially invited him into the house as long as he'd drawn up an apology for her daughter already. That he had: while still giddy from the repairing done to he and John's relationship, he'd walked back from Abbey Road in a strangely calm and relaxed state of mind, and had composed exactly what he would say to Jane. So, he'd gone and sat on the couch, as much a stranger in the house as he always had been, and waited for Jane to come and see him.

20 minutes after her mother had gone to fetch her from upstairs, Jane arrived: bleary-eyed, in a garish peacock-print kimono loosely tied about her waist. She stood on the bottom step, unmoving, and fixed Paul with a long gaze.

"Janey, love, would you come over here?" he asked, as pleading and subservient as he could manage. Her gaze slipped, no doubt seeing he was still in the same clothes as yesterday, and she stepped down to the floor. Her arms folded across her chest.

"You really hurt me, you know," she said, and her voice was hoarse. "You completely walked out on me. That's- that's something insane people do, Paul, do you know that?"

"I know, I know."

"You could have been dead, for all I knew."

"I left you a message," he said, then winced as her expression deepened into further anger.

"You left me a message _this morning_ ," she argued, then stalked forward another two steps. This wasn't exactly the reaction that he'd been hoping for. "I was really worried about you, Paul."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Was it the wedding? Was it cold feet again, or-"

"It wasn't- Jane, it wasn't that, not totally-"

"It seems a lot like it was!"

"The closeness of the date just spooked me," he admitted, standing up and crossing the room to where Jane stood. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and her head whipped to the side, eyebrows furrowed almost cartoonishly. "I was just being foolish, Jane, and I feel really, really awful about it."

"No kidding," she spat. "I just- you walked out, Paul, god! I mean...who does that?"

"I'm sorry, I know, I'm sorry."

"Where did you even sleep?"

"George and Pattie's."

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms tighter around herself. "Oh, yes. Of course. How did I not guess that's where you'd run?"

He bit the inside of his lip, not about to go on a tirade against her for that when he was trying to get back in her good graces. He smoothed his hands up and down her shoulders, pleadingly, and went on, "Jane, what I did was stupid. I know that. I've felt terrible about it all day. But I'm here now, okay? It was just cold feet, but I'm back now, for good."

"How can I trust that?" she said.

He blinked, completely drawing a blank on how he might answer that question. There was no way he could promise not to get angry about the wedding planning, he knew that was a fact as long as Nina was involved, but he could promise not to walk out on her again. So, he told her as much. She handled it better than he expected, frankly, given her mindless following of everything Nina told her to say and do.

"Well," she said, fidgeting a bit under his hands. "Okay." He sighed, and she furthered with a finger to his chest. " _For now_ , Paul. And don't think this is some get-out-of-jail-free card. You really messed up."

"Yes, I know."

"But I'm not going to kick you out over it," she said, then closed her eyes. "Okay. I need to be alone right now. We can talk about this more later."

"I love you," he said quickly, a knee-jerk reaction, but her hand was on his chest and pushing him back.

"Not yet," she said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm- I'm sorry, Jane."

"Yeah," she said, and looked down to the floor. "I know. Okay. And...I love you too. But still."

"Yes, I know." He paused, then added quickly, not sure how it might soften the blow. "John came round to the studio today. He invited us over for dinner next Sunday. Business stuff to discuss."

"Yes, he already told me," she said, blinking. "He called me last night, actually." Bitterly, she added, "After you had left."

"He called you?"

"Yes?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "He's still one of my agents, as well."

"Yes, yes, I just-" he took a step back, realized that John had set up this dinner for the four of them before they'd even discussed the ugly elephant that was the nature of their relationship. Things clicked into place. John had called both George Martin and Jane the night before, after the afternoon slip-up between the two of them; with the former, to arrange the meeting that morning; with the latter, to preemptively set up a dinner date before Paul had even forgiven him. He should have felt slighted, but instead, it was this warm burst in his chest of...compassion? He smiled oddly to himself, and turned back to Jane. "Well, that was thoughtful of him. Are you up for it?"

"Not sure," Jane sighed, and for a moment he was truly bloody angry at her, angry that she might ruin his chances of seeing John again and getting to work on making their relationship normal, getting back to the way they had been.

"I think it'd be nice, don't you? And he did say it was for business reasons."

"Well, yes," she said, still sounding a touch displeased. "They just make me uncomfortable, s'all, y'know? Just, what with knowing about his affair and everything, now. Makes everything more awkward."

Paul's chest twinged at that; yes, that was still real: John's affair with this other woman. The casualness, the meaningless of the kiss came back to him, before he completely dismissed his own offense at that as utter junk; of course it had been meaningless, they had been drunk. A meaningless, drunk, idiotic kiss that they had both seemed to agree to mutually forget ever happened. It still didn't answer why the thought of John canoodling with some other woman outside of his marriage made his chest twinge, but he supposed it was just the normal reaction to discovering someone you held in high regard may have been kind of an arse. High regard for John? He sighed, and pulled himself out of his head once more.

"Still, business is business, right?" he tried half-heartedly, and she shrugged and started doing up the ties of her kimono tighter, wandering to the other side of the room.

"Whatever," she replied, plunking down on the couch. "If you think it's a good idea."

He shrugged, trying not to appear over-eager lest it raise some questions of _why_ exactly he was so eager to see John, and he decided that it was a good time to excuse himself upstairs. No, better yet: outside. He fetched his acoustic from Margaret's makeshift music room, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and headed out to the back porch to do some late-afternoon composing.

It felt like his own strange homage to he and John, sitting out in the backyard with a beer and his guitar, just as they had done as clumsy, idiotic teenagers. Sun-dazed afternoons spent in that little scrap of grass in the heart of Liverpool, the whole world reduced to background noise when he and John sat across from one another. _Chaos and creation in my backyard_ , Paul had once giggled to him, and the description still felt fitting. For all the chaos there had been- and of that, there had been plenty, especially when John was in one of his more playful moods and enjoyed wrestling Paul to the ground- the creation was what he remembered most vividly.

In a continuation of the theme of tradition, oddments of songs he hadn't thought of in years drifted back to him as he aimlessly strummed the guitar, and one grabbed him more than any other. 'Too Much Rain,' he'd called it, one he'd written after his mum's death. G, Em7, Bm: the chord shapes flitted back to him mindlessly, and he sang the words his 14-year-old self had penned one tearful night with a heavy heart.

" _Laugh when your eyes are burning, smile when your heart is filled with pain,_ " he sang softly, a bird chirping syncopating his strums. He'd written those lyrics as directions for himself, the thoughtful words of advice he'd always wished somebody would have given him. A way he had conducted himself in the face of unimaginable loss; the structure he'd instituted for himself, to keep his chin up and, above all else, keep it all bottled tightly inside. Compartmentalizing, he thought bitterly. The only way he'd known how to get by.

He had sung it for John, once. Another afternoon in the backyard, cajoled by John into singing this song that felt like a little piece of his soul. And John, he realized now, had never had he made fun of him for it. For that brief summer, there had been mutual recognition; he had understood John, and John had understood him. Really, in the end, that was all people needed. To be recognized. _I may not always understand you, but I get that,_ John had said. Recognition begetting intimacy, an intimacy that he'd never really gotten again, if he was being truthful with himself. A thought came into focus in the forefront of his mind, blooming with crisp edges: that maybe John had _always_ been the only one who'd really understood him, that he might _always_ be the only one who'd ever understand him. This dark, fragile part of Paul, that John just _got_.

He felt strange, then, as though he'd woken up from a long dream. He set the guitar down in his lap, let his head fall backward to stare up at the sky. Six billion people on the planet, and the only one he felt had this little piece of his soul was a bloke from Liverpool he'd know when he was 14. A smile split his face, and he realized, then, with a complete sense of totality, that he didn't care what happened as long as John kept being in his life.

...

The remains of the week had gone by without much fuss, a welcome change in Paul's eyes. They furthered the work on the Jimmy Robbins' album incrementally, as less and less they seemed to care even the slightest how it would all turn out. Paul spent the majority of his time at Abbey Road composing songs of his own, some of which he even presented for the two Georges' critiques. The seed John had planted in his head of doing solo work, originally so rejected, had now taken a hold in his mind, growing exponentially each day as he wondered if he could actually do it and produce music of his own. Equal parts terrifying and exhilarating was the thought of going out by himself, and it germinated and tossed about in his head all day long until he thought he couldn't stand it any longer without getting it out.

So, he'd taken one of the four-track recorders from the studio home with him (with George M's permission, of course), and recorded demos for two songs he'd been working on: a retooled and more polished version of 'Too Much Rain,' and another called 'Heart of the Country.' The latter he'd written in one morning while waiting for the session drummer to arrive; it was a cheesy little number, diddling and twee, lyrics longing for the pastoral utopia he'd always dreamed of living out. It wasn't particularly fashionable music: 'Too Much Rain' came out sounding something like a 70s power ballad, and 'Heart of the Country' seemed to exist somewhere between the Shins and Elliot Smith. The commerciality of it all wasn't something he was certain about; he was certain John would know what to do with them.

John's opinion was something he kept nestled in the back of his mind, always, for quick reference or guidance: like a little voice in his head or something. His own weirder version of Jiminy Cricket. His hands fumbling over the piano keys, unsure where a chord might go next, and then he'd hear John's voice; nasal, softer than real life, the ghost of his hands over Paul's, positioning him into the next beat. He realized it was strange, surely, but it kept working, and having John up there- or at least, the memory of John- was nice, especially when he was sitting frustrated in the studio with no idea how to proceed.

As for the real version of the man, they'd been in relative silence since John's visit to Abbey Road. He supposed it was all for the best; even though they'd made up, agreed to move past what had happened, it was still sensitive, and he decided it was best for the both of them if they just had a little bit of space between them for the time being. Even if it made him feel stir-crazy, counting down the days until the Sunday dinner.

That Sunday couldn't have come any sooner. He and Jane had been at their wit's ends with each other all week; he'd promised to do his best not to get too angry about all the mess surrounding the wedding planning, but it was hard to manage that with Nina and her mini-army at constant stationing in the house. For someone who'd always prided herself on her stubbornness and force of will, it seemed strange now that Jane was so willing to submit to someone else's opinions on a near-constant basis, and it led to Paul to figure if it was Stockholm Syndrome or something.

So, it was a welcome change to get out of the house and go to dinner. Especially, he had to admit to himself, when that dinner was with John.

They elected to take the bus and then walk a few blocks rather than ride over in the car; it was one of those beautiful mild September nights, a gloaming settling into the city that gave the impersonation of calm, and a gentle wind to abate the earlier heat of the day. Jane wore her hair up with a scarf like Audrey Hepburn, replete with sunglasses and all, and as they walked he was mortified to be snapped by three different paparazzos. The curve of her painted smile as they briskly walked past them seemed to suggest that she had anticipated an audience on their journey. It was baffling, and he told her as much.

" _Paul_ ," she began, in that slightly annoyed, singy-songy tone of voice as they passed Abbey Road. "This is just as much my job as acting is, now."

"I didn't sign up to be part of it," he said, and her grip on his arm tightened.

"That's a ridiculous thing to say," she sniffed, but he didn't further the comment. He'd just about come to realize that she almost entirely wrong on that front, but the last thing they needed before entering a dinner party of rather delicate social balancing was a loud and public outburst. That Thursday they'd gotten into one of those at the grocer's, and Jane had thrown her hands up and walked through the sliding glass doors to a flurry of photographers. It all just seemed so _wrong_ ; every day, it seemed more and more of their life was being taken away, bit by bit, with every snap of the camera, and Jane didn't seem to mind even the slightest. Paul maintained the sentiment that every person wanted to be famous, to some extent, and he realized that not even he was exempt from this want, but this kind of celebrity seemed absolutely perverse. It was a celebrity without dignity, without agency, without integrity, and Jane was walking head-first into it with arms open and a dazzling smile.

"Care to ring the doorbell?" he said, gesturing to the door of the Lennon residence. Jane sighed, curled a manicured hand into a fist, and knocked on the door three times. He was about to say something snide, point out that no one would hear knocks on the door rather than the doorbell, but then the door was already opening.

Cynthia stood there. There was something disconnected in her expression; her eyes slid from Jane to Paul, something distantly frazzled in the motion. She took a step sideways, opened the door further, and put on a smile.

"Hello Paul, Jane," she said, ushering them inside. "You can leave your coats here, I'll take them, here...yes, and just head into the living room, I'll be in right after you." She took Paul's overcoat and Jane's beige trench, folding them gently over her arm and then gesturing with her free arm down the hallway. "Just down there, I know the layout's confusing. Erm, John should be in there if he's not in the kitchen. He'll introduce you to the Starkey's."

The hallway, as Cynthia instructed, led to a large living room with a predominate coloring of blue. Couch, walls, paintings: very blue. It was because of this that the man sitting on the blue couch, presumably Mr. Starkey, was the most prominent fixture of the room. Mr. Starkey wore a bright red sweatshirt, emblazoned, in large print: BAD STAR.

Paul immediately liked him.

"You must be Paul!" Mr. Starkey exclaimed, standing to shake his hand with a certain enthusiasm Paul had never encountered in small conversation. "It's so good to finally meet you! John's always on about you." His attention swiveled to Jane. "And you're Jane Asher!" he exclaimed, pulling her hand into a jangly handshake as well. That Mr. Starkey 'exclaimed' everything was redundant; the exuberant quality that seemed to inhibit every facet of him like, well, a _star_ , made everything he said sound like an exclamation. It was another round of excited handshakes before Mrs. Starkey stood up to introduce herself.

"Hi," she said, extending her hand as well. "I'm Maureen."

"Hello-"

"Very nice to-"

"You're on that show, aren't you?" she furthered, staring down at Jane. Jane blushed, smiled in the same way she always did when someone brought up the show.

"Why yes, I am. Are you a fan?"

"Mm, I've seen it," Maureen replied distantly. Paul immediately liked her, too. "And...Paul, yes?"

"That's me!" he replied cheerfully.

"Ringo's told me about you through what John's talked about," she said, grinning. "John's a really big fan of yours. Always has been."

Paul felt something stick in his throat. _Always has been_. It suddenly occurred to him that this couple, one half of which was John's self-professed "best friend," likely knew that Paul and John had known each other for much longer than just these last few weeks; they probably knew that they'd been friends since Liverpool, since they were teenagers. That was a vaguely terrifying thought, as Jane did _not_ know that, and he had intended to keep it that way, on the continued grounds that he didn't feel comfortable answering her questions about what their relationship was and why exactly he had kept it a secret for so long.

"Oh, well," was Paul's weak response to that, his hand limp where Jane's curled around it. She squeezed it tight, and he looked over to her expectant face. "Well, that's very kind. Um, Ringo, right?" he furthered, pointing at Mr. Starkey, who nodded. "Yeah, John's mentioned you too."

"Really?" Ringo said in awe, almost in surprise, and he looked terribly affectionate. "All good things, I hope. Haha."

"Yes, all-"

"Well, if isn't Mr. and Mrs. Asher," a nasally voice interrupted, and his breath caught in his throat. The man in possession of said voice walked closer, and a pair of warm hands landed on his shoulders. A shiver ran down his spine; John dug his fingers in deeper, and if he could have turned and seen the expression on his face, he would have been sure it was one of proper Cheshire Cat slyness. "I see you've met Paulie and Jane, then," he said, nodding, bumping the back of Paul's head as he did so. He kind of wanted to punch him for all of this.

"Yes we have!" Ringo beamed.

"It's nice to finally put a face to the name 'Paulie,'" Maureen agreed, and he cringed a bit. God, she _did_ know that they'd known each other their whole lives. All it was going to take was some off-hand comment, and Jane would implode.

"Jane, Paul, these are the Starkey's," John continued unaffected, finally stepping away from Paul to do introductions; he was wearing a black sweatshirt that read 'PROPERTY OF HER MAJESTY'S PRISONS' and his hair was down in his face, wind-blown and uncombed. He felt a little skip in his heart at the sight of him, and had to stare down at his shoes again.

"John'n I know each other from night school," Ringo explained. "Although he didn't even last a month, he still kept talking to me."

"A tale as old as time," John said, a certain warmth in his voice. "And Maureen, of course, has kept us all together." She rolled her eyes at that, and he continued, "And Starkey's, these are the Ashers. Jane's my client at the firm, of course. As is Paul, now, actually."

"Are you in television, too?" Maureen asked, eyebrows furrowed. "I didn't think-"

"I'm a musician," he clarified quickly, and Ringo nodded approvingly. "Er, just a session musician, y'know, erm, I work at Abbey Road Studios."

"Abbey Road!" Ringo exclaimed. "You oughta be more impressed, havin' a gig like that!"

"Well, it's..." he trailed off, unsure how to further explain, so he just shrugged. "Yeah."

"Anyway," John cut in. "Dinner should be ready any minute now. Pork roast."

"Anything else with it?" Paul asked sheepishly, realizing he still hadn't mentioned to John yet that he was a vegetarian.

John made a weird face, accordingly, shook his head, and began listing off on his fingers. "Well, let's see. Carrots. Potatoes. Bread. Napkins. Forks-"

"I get it," he said, rolling his eyes, while the others laughed. He was about to say something when Cynthia called from the other room that dinner was ready, and so they were led into the dining room, for what Paul was afraid could be a dinner party for the ages for all the wrong reasons.

There was a modest spread of food, but with candles lit and crisply-folded napkins there was a certain air of fanciness to the whole affair. Cynthia and John were staked at opposite ends of the table; Paul and Jane sat on one side, Maureen and Ringo on the other. Although he may not have consciously tried to, Paul had ended up on John's right, close enough to spit if he wanted. John had always been a nuisance, and having to sit for extended periods of time only seemed to bring out the worst of it; there was many a time, eating dinner with Paul's family back in Liverpool, that he'd extend his foot over to Paul's, snake his toes up the hem of his trousers or something and toy with his leg. He always knew he could get away with it; he'd sit there with the straightest face imaginable as he did it, carrying on conversation with someone the whole time, while Paul would collapse into his plate, red in the face and so mortified he could barely speak. Beneath the veneer of adult sensibilities and maturity, Paul suspected that John wouldn't hesitate to try it tonight. In premeditated response, he sat with his legs folded primly beneath his seat.

"So, Jane," Cynthia finally began, once all the food had been passed round the table. "We saw the second episode on Friday and absolutely _loved_ it."

"Thank you so much!" Jane said between bites of potatoes, fork clanging to the plate. She dabbed the corner of her mouth, then continued, "Well, there's a lot of continuation of the plot in that episode. Lot of expository stuff, y'know, with my character's past and whatnot." Her eyes grew distant. "It was so fun when we were shooting. Just really getting to get into the head of the character."

"What show is this, again?" Ringo asked, and Jane's expression turned sour. Cynthia laughed nervously; he could see a small grin cracking John's face, and relished in it. It wasn't very often lately that Jane was met with someone who hadn't seen the show; he supposed that was the by-product of living in a bubble, but still.

"I can't believe you haven't seen it, Ritchie, it's all anyone at my work has been talking about!" Cynthia assured with a wave of her hand. " _The Pretty Things_ , it's called. It's a period piece about London in the 60s. Jane stars in it, you know."

"It's really good, Rings," John said, mouth full of food.

"I've watched it, hon, I told you it was good."

"Now I guess I'll _have_ to watch it!" Ringo laughed, and Paul looked to see Jane staring firmly at her plate. He nudged her a bit with his foot, but she didn't respond.

"Well, erm, anyway," Cynthia said, still laughing nervously. "John cooked the pot roast, by the way. He's just fantastic with meat, you know."

The small smile on John's face twitched, and he winked exaggeratedly at Paul. He ducked his head in turn; the only thing he could think of suddenly was the hallway, just across from the dining room, where John had kissed him. It was wrong of him, to keep dwelling on it as he was, but it was sort of a perverse pleasure: a scab you can't stop picking at. At least that's what he assured himself of, as he kept redrawing the moment in his mind, imagining John's hands gripping the sides of his face and that small smile finally cracking into a grin as his face moved forward and-

"You're not having any of my meat, Paulie?" John said lowly, putting his chin in his hand and batting his eyelashes. Paul glanced quickly to the rest of the table; Jane was talking more about the show, preoccupying the other residents of dinner, and no one seemed to have heard John's jibe. He lowered his gaze to his plate, pointedly not looking over at John.

"I'm a vegetarian, y'know," he muttered, and John scoffed.

"Bullshit."

"I _am_."

"Since when?"

"Since the meat industry has destroyed the environment and killed billions of animals for no reason other than human's selfishness," he shot back, but it only earned him another scoff.

"Listening to too much Morrissey, eh?" he laughed, and popped a forkful of roast into his mouth. "It's tasty, Paulie."

"Tastes like murder."

"God, you're insufferable." He jabbed his fork at his slice of roast, pretending to look all pissed, but the same smile was bookending his mouth again. When he spoke next, it was quieter, and hoarse. "I've missed you, you know."

"I've missed you too," he murmured back, not even missing a beat, but it was a second before he could meet John's gaze after saying it. John's eyes were the heaviest thing in the universe, he'd come to realize. There was nothing quite like looking a person right in the eyes, even when they didn't mean very much to you; when it was John's eyes he was looking at, those same eyes from Liverpool a decade ago, eyes he'd dreamt of for so many years, it was like being sucked into a black hole. Something inescapable. Although, truthfully, he wasn't so sure anymore if it was something he'd _want_ to escape.

John's eyes glinted in the warmth of the candles; there was a slight flush to his cheeks. He didn't avert his gaze, but leaned into it, like he was taunting Paul, seeing how far he could push it before Paul pulled away. The eternal tug-of-war between them, one that, eventually, Paul knew he would give in to. Sure enough, John's foot nudged his, nestled until their ankles were crossed. He licked his lips once, and Paul felt his heart drop into his stomach. Er, maybe lower.

"Paul?" Jane said, a hand on his arm, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Er, uh- yes?"

"I was just talking to Maureen- where was it we stayed in Italy last year?"

He blinked, trying to think. A hard undertaking, he realized; John was drawing their legs closer together, and it felt as though all the blood in his body was rushing to someplace that he didn't want to think about very much before the implications of it all caught up to him. "Erm, oh, it was that place off the Amalfi Coast, wasn't it?"

"Yes, yes," she said, and turned back to talk to the Starkey's and Cynthia. Paul looked over for a moment, sure that this was visible to everyone at the table, what exactly it was that John was doing, but no one, still, seemed to notice, not even Cynthia. He took a deep breath, and placed a hand over his face.

"What's wrong?" John said, but it didn't sound like he was taunting anymore. "Is it-"

"J-John," he started, throat choked up, and then realized that John had removed his foot. He swallowed, hard, and opened his mouth to speak again when someone else began.

"So, Paul, is Abbey Road as swanky as it seems?" Ringo was asking, and he nodded.

"Well, yes, it's-" was all he could get out before he realized, to his ever-growing horror, that John's foot had landed on his leg again, only this time at a much higher vantage point: specifically, the inside of his thigh. He realized, then, too, that he'd taken his shoe off, as a socked foot dragged up and down the inseam of his trousers. He gripped the tablecloth with one hand, not even daring to look over at John, and tried to maintain his composure. Lest, god forbid, someone decide to look under the table. "It's very _swanky_ , yes."

"What do you do there, exactly?" Maureen asked. John's foot was drifting dangerously close to his crotch, which was rather preoccupied at the moment- again, due _merely_ to the fact that he and Jane hadn't been done anything sexual for a few days, and he was all bottled up, and certainly _not_ because of the way that John had licked his lips before putting his bloody _foot_ on the inside of his thigh.

"Um, I do, um...session work, y'know," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. It was burning hot; he hoped nobody was noticing that in the dim lighting.

"But what does that entail?"

"Um, well it's, um- _oh!_ " John's big toe just barely grazed the tip of his cock; even through two layers of fabric, it felt as though he'd been burned, hence his exclamation, and the tablecloth he'd gripped along with it. Suddenly, everyone at the table was staring at him very strangely. He willed John, whatever conscience may have existed up in that demented little mind of his, to _stop,_ hoping that he had some secret ESP he'd never known about and that he'd get the bloody message.

"Paul?" Jane said, eyebrows furrowed.

"It's- well, I just remembered! I, um..." he trailed off, searching for something to say. "Well, it's, well, when you brought up Abbey Road, I just remembered that I left my coat at the studio on Friday." He smacked himself upside the head. "Silly me."

"Right," Maureen said slowly.

"But yeah, erm, at Abbey Road, the session work I do is usually just, uh, recording bass tracks for songs. For the people who, er, who come to the studio, to have their album done." John's foot had not ventured near his cock again, but was resting near it, slowly stroking the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He felt his mind melting with every continued second.

"He's actually working on Jimmy Robbins record, right now," John said, completely composed, of course.

"Jimmy Robbins?" Ringo asked.

"The kid who won British Idol," Maureen said, turning to her husband. "Remember? It was in the papers last year." She then turned to Paul, eyes wide. "That's a pretty big deal, then!"

"Mm," was about all he could manage, lips folded into a thin line as John's foot inched closer and closer to the top of his thigh. He was formulating, briefly, how he might leap up from the table and run away in an explicable manner: maybe blame it on an emergency trip to the loo?

"Are you alright, Paul?" Jane asked, quietly, as though she was reading his thoughts. He could only hope to god that that wasn't the case.

"Yeah, me? Pfft. I'm fine," he laughed, unsurely, and could tell his voice still sounded strained. John's foot had retreated further down, somewhere in the knee region, and although it was slightly ticklish and made him squirm a bit as a result of that, it was nowhere near his cock, so that was somewhat alleviating.

"You just seem... _off_ ," she said, frowning.

He could tell that John was listening to them; his foot dropped off, and he awkwardly and too quickly began to speak to Ringo about some off-topic. His voice sounded strange, too. Paul took a deep breath, and managed an off smile for Jane.

"I'm just tired, s'all," he assured her. "Really. It was a long week."

"Okay," she said, and picked her fork back up. She didn't seem assured of anything, but again, that was typically the case. In the candlelight, her skin was waxy, eyes flat and glassy. He wondered, not for the first time, when this impassable gulf had seemed to split between them. It was easier to blame it on the show, but thinking now, watching her small, robotic movements as she ate, if they had been doomed from the very start.

"So, Jane," Cynthia began not a moment later. "Have you two set a date for the wedding yet?"

"You two aren't married?" Ringo said, eyebrows furrowed.

"Er, no, no," Paul said quickly. Maybe too quickly; Jane was giving him a disapproving look. "We're _engaged_ , s'all."

"We're getting married on November 8th," Jane said, firmly.

"So exciting," Cynthia sighed. "It's going to be a beautiful wedding, I'm sure."

"Yes, we're very excited," Jane said, squeezing Paul's hand for emphasis. Without thinking, his eyes flitted over to John; he was staring down at his plate, pushing a mound of potatoes back and forth with the dullness and boredom of a little boy. Something cross had worked its way into his expression, something sour; he figured it served him right for torturing him with his foot like that, but something in his chest still ached at the sight of a sullen John. He thought of saying something, but was, for what felt like the millionth time that evening, interrupted by something else.

"Julian!" Cynthia was cooing, ushering the little boy to come into the light. He had race car pajamas on, and his hair was mussed up and hanging in his face just like John's. He smiled a bit at the sight, and glanced over at John to see that he was smiling too.

"C'mere, son," he said, waving Julian over. "What's up? Monster under the bed?"

"I heard voices," Julian said quietly, rounding the table to sit on his father's lap. That itself caused a bit of cognitive dissonance; not that Paul didn't know he was a father now, but to still primarily have the vision of teenage John in his head, and then to see him doting and caring for a seven-year-old boy who was his son...it was still strange. It made his heart ache, in a weird way, to see how soft John seemed with Julian, the gentle way he brushed his hair back and talked quietly with him.

"Good to see ya, lad," Ringo said. "Hearing voices, eh?"

"The schizophrenia sets in early with some of them, m'afraid," John replied, poking Julian in between the ribs and making him giggle.

" _John_ ," Cynthia scolded, waving her napkin out. "Don't say stuff like that to him. Julian, baby? Do you want to go back to bed?"

"No," he said, jumping off of John's lap. "Can I play video games?"

"No," Cynthia near shouted. "It's past your bedtime. You need to go back upstairs. Now."

"He's fine," John said stiffly, brushing down the boy's shirt in the front. Paul suddenly felt that they were in the midst of something they shouldn't have been; Cynthia stared down the table at John, positively glowering, then stood up curtly and asked Maureen if she would help her clean up in the kitchen. The Starkey's, rather awkwardly, announced that they actually had to get going, and so said their (albeit) quick goodbyes and were escorted to the door by Cynthia. Jane went along; for what reason, he could not know, but now it was just him, John, and Julian; the sudden near-aloneness with John made him feel strange, buzzing with nerves, and he turned his attention to Julian to keep from having to speak to John.

"What video games do you like?" he asked, folding his napkin up. Julian's head jerked towards him, and he looked as though he wasn't sure if Paul was talking to him or not. He squished his mouth up, playing with the tablecloth.

"Um, I like snowboarding games," he mumbled.

"He's going to be a professional snowboarder when he grows up," John said softly, reaching over and ruffling Julian's hair. He frowned and stuck his tongue out at him. "Quit that. You mum'll have me hide if she knows you're still doing that."

"So?" Julian shot back. "I don't care what mum says."

"He certainly takes after you," Paul said, grinning a bit, and finally looked over to John.

And it was then that he realized that he was pretty much fucked.

His eyes were huge, shining still in the candlelight, and his face was open and alight in a way that made him... _beautiful_. He could feel a blush creeping up his neck, but was unable to tear his eyes away; he allowed himself that, to stare, to memorize the way John looked then. Porcelain, and soft, hair nearly auburn in the warm light, eyelashes curtaining a heavy gaze. His lips twitched, then finally settled into a tender smile.

"What're you looking at?" he asked, voice strained.

"You," Paul grinned back, then stared down at his plate. His heart felt like it was beating a million miles an hour, or like he'd been strapped into a rollercoaster without considering the dangers, but upon seeing that strange, soft smile on John's face, it was like all else melted away. Underneath the table, he nudged his foot over to John's, and his smile cracked into something brighter.

"Paul, I-"

"Dad, can I go play video games?" Julian cut in, exasperatedly. "You're just _sittin'_ here, and mum is-"

"You-" John stopped, sighing. "You can't be on the PlayStation this late, bud. It's bed time."

"But I don't wanna go to bed," he whined. "I don't get why you and mum get to stay up late and talk and I _can't_. It's not _fair_."

"There's a difference between fair and equal,," John sighed, standing up and clearing his plate. "Here, lemme take your- yeah. Paul, can you, uh...can you watch Julian for a minute while I take these to the kitchen and wash up?"

"Sure, sure," he said, and turned to Julian, who looked absolutely miserable. "Say, why don't you and I go find something fun to do, huh?"

"Fun?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "I wanna play on the TV."

" _No_ ," John said again.

"C'mon," Paul said, standing up. "Follow me."

" _Daa-aa-ad-_ "

"Julian, really."

He sighed exaggeratedly, huffing and puffing and rolling his eyes in that exceedingly dramatic little boy way, but followed Paul down the hallway nonetheless. He went to where he remembered the living room to be, but instead found he'd gone down the hallway where John had kissed him. Whether this had been conscious or not, he couldn't tell, but his breath caught in his throat all the same. Undaunted, he carried on, leading a vocally bored Julian to where John's office was.

"Has your Dad ever let you be in here?" he asked, pointing to the door.

"No, course not," he huffed. "He always gets mad when I try."

Paul grinned. "Why don't you say we go in, then?"

Julian's eyes widened into saucers, and he glanced conspiratorially between the door and Paul. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you wanna see what's in there?"

"But Dad'll be mad."

"Don't worry, he won't be," Paul assured him, trying the handle and finding it was unlocked. "He and me are best mates, you know. He won't get mad at me."

"I thought Dad's best mate was Mum," Julian asked, and he couldn't help but cringe a bit at that.

"Umm, well, it's different," he said, opening the door and letting them inside. "It's- well, your mum and dad are married, and being married is sometimes different than being best mates with someone, right?"

"I thought that was why people got married," Julian said, scrunching his nose up. "You have a best mate and you get married so you can be around each other all the time."

"Er," Paul said, scratching the back of his head. "Not exactly."

"Well that's dumb," he huffed, then looked around the room. "So what is this?"

"It's your Dad's office."

Julian walked around the room, eyes dull and staring up at the stacks of papers, files, cups of pens. He glanced at the desk, computer, rolling chair. He didn't say anything, surveying the room, then finally saw the stuffed King Kong.

"This is mine," he scowled, staring up at where it sat, perched high on top of a shelf, snarling blankly down at John's desk. He waved his arm up, too short to grab it. Wordlessly, Paul went over and took it down for him. Julian put his arms around it protectively, petting the top of its head for a moment. "Dad stole it from me."

"Sounds like him."

"Dad steals?" Julian said, looking up at Paul.

"Oh, all the time. Has he never told you about the time that he and I pulled off a bank heist?" he grinned. "We stole millions of dollars worth of diamonds from the United States National Bank."

" _Really?_ " Julian exclaimed excitedly, gripping the stuffed King Kong tighter. "I can't believe he never told me that!" He toddled around the desk to stand over the rolling chair. "Can I sit here?"

"Course you can, Mr. Lennon," Paul said, sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. Julian popped down in the rolling chair, grinning from ear to ear, and started spinning himself in circles, giggling wildly.

"I can't believe Dad's never let me in here!" he exclaimed, almost unable to speak through the giggles. "This is like a ride at the fair!"

"Seems like there's a lot your Da's kept from you," Paul said. "Like the bank heist. I know I'd tell _my_ kids about that."

"Where do you guys hide the diamonds?" he asked, spinning slower. "Cuz if I had diamonds I would hide them beneath my mattress cuz I know that Mum never looks under there so she wouldn't find it, aaand I'd be able to be super rich aaaand I'd be allowed to play all the video games I'd want and never have a bedtime..." He stopped spinning suddenly, coming to face Paul. His eyes were buggy. "I'm _dizzy_."

"Maybe you should lay down for a bit then, huh?" Paul said.

"Yeah," he mumbled distantly, standing to a wobbly start. "Can you help me up the stairs?"

"Course I can," he said, and took Julian's little hand in his and led them back out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind them. He still gripped the King Kong doll tight against his chest, walking stutteredly and rambling more about diamonds and bank heists. Paul hoped he hadn't caused too much trouble by telling him that; he was sure John would think it was funny. Cynthia, likely less so.

As they passed the kitchen, John spotted them and ran out from where he'd been over the sink. He came to stand beside Paul with a hand on his shoulder, smiling at the two of them.

"Where'd you get the King Kong, kid?"

"Your office," Julian responded dazedly. "Um, your best mate let me in and he let me take it and he let me spin in the spinny chair and now I'm really dizzy and I'm gonna lay down for a bit..." he trailed off, yawning. John rolled his eyes.

"You're not allowed in my office, you know."

"He said it was okay!" Julian protested, looking up to Paul, who just shrugged.

"My best mate, eh?" John said, shooting Paul a grin. "He shouldn't have done that."

They'd come to the base of the stairs, and Julian was gripping his dad's hand then, having dropped Paul's, and he suddenly felt that he should stop and head back to wherever Jane was. As though he was reading his thoughts, John gestured for him to follow them up the stairs, and so he trailed behind, all the way to Julian's room. As John tucked him into bed, Paul stood to the side, and Julian continued rambling.

"And he told me about your bank heist and all the diamonds you stole, which you never told me about and, um..."

"Bank heist?" John said, eyes wide, laughing a bit. "I stole _diamonds?_ "

"You're a terrible liar, Johnny," Paul sighed, shaking his head. "The kid already knows everything."

"Shoot...well, Julian, you've got to promise to be quiet about it, alright? Mummy doesn't know about it."

"Where're the diamonds?" Julian said, but a yawn tore it apart. He struggled to sit up, then finally let his head fall back on the pillow. He had an arm draped lazily over the stuffed King Kong, and looked so much like John that it almost brought him to tears.

"I'll tell you in the morning," John said, brushing his son's hair off his forehead and kissing him there. "I love you, kid."

Julian sniffed, rolling over in bed and closing his eyes. "Love you too, Dad."

John stood there for a moment, unmoving, then turned the lamp off. In the darkness, his hand drifted to Paul's arm, gripping his elbow tight. There was a thin beam of light entering the room from where the door was cracked, and John led them to it, pushing Paul out into the hallway and gently closing the door shut behind them. There was another moment where he didn't move, just stood there, hand clasped round the door knob, and then he let it fall. His shoulders fell along with it, in a deep sigh, one he seemed to have been holding for a long time. When he spoke, it was quiet, and he wouldn't turn round.

"Sorry if I made you uncomfortable at dinner," he began, sounding sheepish. "I didn't, um..."

"It was fine," Paul said, surprising even himself as he said it. "Just having a laugh, right?"

"Right," John said, but he sounded unsure, his voice still strained.

"I'm not, like...upset, or anything," he said softly.

"Right," he repeated.

"John, are you...are you okay?" he asked, and placed his hand on the other man's shoulder. He could feel his muscles tense, even beneath the thickness of his sweatshirt, but he didn't remove his hand. His head was swirling, spinning and turning, with memories of years and years, like they'd all been thrown into the wash together. John, lounging in his backyard in Liverpool, shirt riding up so Paul could see the taut muscles of his stomach; John, arms around him when he was 17, on the verge of tears, hand fluttering at the base of his neck and breath hot; years of something he'd left unsaid, to himself, to John, something he'd buried for so long that it had become something unspeakable. His hand drifted up and down John's arm, stroking, almost petting him, and he felt his cock stiffen as he remembered John's lips on his, remembered John stroking the inside of his thigh at dinner. He closed his eyes, breath faltering, and when he opened them again John had turned around to face him.

"...John?" he asked again, voice ragged.

"I'm going to kiss you, alright?" John said, and then he was shoving Paul backwards into the wall and pressing their mouths together.

Paul was surprised, even to himself, to realize how badly he'd wanted it. He gasped into John's mouth, wet and needy; there hadn't even been a _pause_ before he'd begun kissing him back, he realized, but that was the farthest thing from his mind then. His skin burned, cock ached; his mind was a messy blur, wanting _more, more, more,_ as John kissed him greedily and gripped his hair and tugged his head down against his. When he'd kissed him before it had been soft, gentle almost; there was none of that now. A hand snaked down from Paul's hair to wrap around his waist, pulling them tighter together, and he felt like he'd been doused in gasoline and left to burn. He'd never kissed a bloke before, let alone one like _John_ ; his arms clutched desperately against his back, broad and strong, so unlike anything he'd ever felt this close to him, but his mind was almost blanked with pleasure. John was a fantastic kisser, unsurprisingly, and drifted down from his mouth to his chin, sucking and biting the sensitive skin at the angle of his jaw, and a broken moan came from somewhere deep in his throat. It was only at that that John stopped, looking up to meet Paul's gaze; his pupils were blown wide, mouth bruised and wet. He licked his lips and grinned.

"You stopped," Paul mumbled, and it came out more of a whine than anything.

"I fucking _knew it,_ " John said, and leaned back against for one more kiss, deepening and goading Paul's jaw more open, more receiving; it was only as his hands drifted to rest at his lower hip that Paul had to push him away.

"We can't- John, I..." he sighed, bringing his hands to his eyes. "Oh, god, John, John, what the fuck are we doing..." he moaned, and he felt a soothing hand running up and down his arm. When he moved his hands from his eyes, John was grinning again.

"We're doing what we should have done a long time ago, I think," he said, hand squeezing his shoulder.

"John, we can't-"

"But we _can_."

"You're married!" he cried, then, gaze dipping down to the stairs where the rest of the dinner party was undoubtedly waiting on them, shuffled further away from John. "And I'm- I'm _getting_ married in, like, a _month_ , John! And, and, I'm not- you're not..."

"Not what, Paul?" he taunted, eyebrow raised. Paul sighed uncomfortably, squirming.

"Not _gay_ ," he said, almost hissing it. Even saying it made him feel dirty, and of course John just rolled his eyes.

"It doesn't have to be-"

"But it _is_ ," he said, and felt a cloud of worry descend upon him. "God, I can't- I can't _cheat_ on Jane, I can't believe I-"

John shut him up, placing his mouth over his, in a much softer kiss; he paused a moment, frozen, then reluctantly returned it. He sighed into John, then placed his hand on his chest and pushed him back again.

"Johnny, please-"

"Have I ever told you I really like it when you call me that?" he said, eyes so big they looked like they might fall out.

"John, Cynthia and Jane are downstairs. We have to- we can't be here..." He stared at him sadly. "We can't."

John held his gaze for a moment, eyes blazing defiantly, just like a kid again. Finally, he rolled his eyes once more, and nodded.

"Alright, alright, we'll head back downstairs. No more...tonight?"

" _John_."

"Paul, I don't want you to run away from this again," he said, his words tinged with sadness. "Not like I did, you know? I don't-" He took a deep breath. "I can't lose you. Not now. Please."

"I'm not running away," he mumbled.

"But you did," he insisted. "When I kissed you before, you did, and you acted like it wasn't what you wanted."

"John," he said again, uneasily. "This is honestly just all really confusing and scary, okay?" He sighed. "I mean, I- I don't know. I'm not running, at the very least. I can promise you that. Okay?"

"Okay," he echoed back, and smiled again, but it seemed less sure. Paul sighed, took his hand and squeezed it, once, then let it drop and started down the hallway toward the stairs. At the bottom of them, was his future, he knew: his fiancee, the supposed love of his life. Everything he was supposed to want. Behind him, John stood, wavering, and he couldn't even dare to look back.

He was so unbelievably fucked. 


	14. A Taste of Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD okay I know it's been approx. nine million years since my last update but here it finally is (yay? hopefully??) and happy pride month!! i might (MIGHT) be finishing this fic within the month in celebration. er, might. 
> 
> Also, I know that now, more than ever, we all prolly need some good ol' escapism in the form of fanfiction. I know not all of you are American, but please stay safe regardless, and consider please donating to any of the charities/funds going on right now (here's a good article with a bunch of places you can donate: https://nymag.com/strategist/article/where-to-donate-for-black-lives-matter.html)
> 
> i hope you are all doing okay. anyway. please enjoy, leave a comment as always. do not even hesitate to shoot me an ask or whatever at my tumblr, i'm always up for questions and such :)

Things were strange.

This wasn't to say they weren't _good_ ; Paul would have been lying if he didn't secretly feel he was sure to spend the next week floating around in a cloud of dazed happiness after realizing (sort of) the way he felt about John, but it was still strange. Very, very strange, really. For as much happiness as being around John brought him, guilt and an innate feeling of wrongness seemed to plague him in equal measures.

After their kiss, Paul hadn't been able to stand being at the Lennon house any longer; to be in the same room as John and Jane was too much, the guilt of his infidelity crushing his chest every time he looked at her unsuspecting face. To be there with Cynthia, too- knowing that once again her husband was cheating on her, and with _him_ , nonetheless- it made him feel despicable. In terms of how 'bad' of a person cheating made you, he tended to rank it pretty high; the fact that it was with John made it all the worse, somehow.

Altogether, he was trying to avoid putting a label on what _it_ was. Once there was a label on any of it, whether questioning their sexuality or the exact nature of their new arrangements, he knew that things were only going to get stranger. Paul, a chronic over-thinker, admittedly, had never done much without thinking it through fastidiously first, weighing the pros and cons and deconstructing exactly what it was he was doing. But when John had pushed him into the wall, brought them together...all thinking had gone out the window, pretty much, head emptied of all else except how _good_ and _right_ it felt. Thinking back to that moment- which he'd been doing a lot of- he still couldn't rationalize how immediately he'd given in to John, not hesitating even a moment before returning the kiss. Eventually it seemed to bring him to a rather uncomfortably inevitable realization; as 'sudden' as all these feelings seemed, he was beginning to think that they'd been around much longer than he would originally admit.

When he was 14, he'd had a crush on John, and he knew that; there was no other word more fitting to convey the absolute obsession and adulation he'd harbored for the boy back then. Thinking back on it, he supposed John may have felt the same way, although back then he'd interpreted John's clumsy, tactless flirting as bullying; up until very recently, he would have continued to think this as the truth, although, like many other things in the wake of John kissing him, the situation had taken on new dimensions.

As an older teenager, the feelings he'd had for John had been warped, recategorized, as he operated under the assumption that John had hated him the entire time and had only hung out with him to make a gaff of it for Stu Sutcliffe. The entire idea of boys as _subjects of affection_ and _want_ had been cast from his mind, stuffed into some dusty corner where he wouldn't have to think about it. His teenage devotion had been shifted to Dot Rhone, and the longing for John he continued to feel was renamed, some sort of brotherly affection, a yearning that was translated into nostalgia. Not once had he ever, even to himself, thought of his feelings for John as anything more than that. He was _praised_ for his way with girls, and it made him feel right; that with every girl he charmed, every one he brought back home that would earn a wink from his dad, it somehow made him a better man. That it would somehow fill the gaping hole left in his chest by the one boy he'd ever cared about in that way. And, truly, he knew that had been half the reason for Jane in the first place; the ultimate girl to bring home, beautiful and intelligent, an actress. Hair that was, in the dull early light of morning, the same shade of auburn as John's on the pillow next to him. Someone he could start a new life with. Move on, grow up, whatever the hell else he was supposed to do.

Not _kiss blokes_ , that was for sure.

As it went, it had been two nights since their last kiss. He sat now, at the sound booth, twirling his phone on the veneer finishing, debating whether to call John or not. It was a bit like being a teenager all over again, wondering whether to call a girl back for a second date or not, wondering when it would be all right to put your hand under her shirt. That this was all over _John_ gave him a little jolt of excitement each time he thought of it, and he flipped his phone over once more, typing the same memorized string of numbers in before deleting them, over and over.

George, who'd been sitting cross-legged on the other side of the room with his guitar, finally seemed to take notice of this after Paul had done it maybe fifteen or twenty times.

"What is your _issue?_ " he asked, exasperated, popping his head up from behind his curtain of hair. "Is that thing your bloody fidget toy?"

"What're you talking about?" he mumbled, feigning ignorance and shoving his phone deep in his pocket. George just rolled his eyes and stood up, striding the room to sit across from him at the booth. "George, I'm not-"

"You've been acting weird ever since that dinner at the Lennon's, and the fact that you won't talk about is starting to make me suspicious."

"It was just an awkward dinner, s'all."

George narrowed his eyes, leaning back a bit in his chair. "So that's all, then?"

" _Yes_. That's what I told you."

"So how come you keep typing in John Lennon's phone number and then deleting it?"

"That's not what I'm-" he groaned, burying his face in his hands. "That's not what I've been doing, you numpkin."

"Whose number was it, then?"

" _No_ one's," he grumbled. "I'm just fidgeting with it. I'm nervous about that meeting with George Martin later."

"You really think he's gonna ask us to quit now?" George said, voice taking on a brighter tone as he sat up.

"I _know_ that's what it's going to be. The Jimmy Robbins record is finished, there's no more use for us to be here. They're probably already geared up to fire him."

George, picking at the exposed linoleum lining running beneath the sound booth, cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. "How do you feel about it all? Like, how do you really feel about it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are you scared?"

"To leave Abbey Road?" he asked, then let his head fall, too. In his pocket, his thumb traced over the keypad, number by number. "Hrm. Well. Yes, I s'pose so. It's a scary thing, innit? We've been here for like four years now." He paused, chewing his lip. "Why? Are you scared?"

"I'm not, actually," he said, then looked up to Paul. "Is that weird?"

He shrugged. "I mean...everyone feels differently about change, right? Maybe you're just more ready to say goodbye and move on than I am." He stopped, furrowing his brow, as his words stuck in his throat. "Four years...is a long time."

"It's how long you've been dating Jane, too, yeah?" George said, then began laughing. "Remember when you brought her here for the first time? _Hah_...and she asked what all the knobs were for, remember that?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, nibbling his finger. George shot him a look, leaning forward further on to the sound booth. "It's just, maybe I'm not ready to move on, y'know? Maybe I feel like there's still something I could do here, right? Something...worthwhile? Like maybe I'm wasting a good thing."

George cocked an eyebrow, snorting. "I've gotta be honest, seems like you're not, er... _entirely_ talking about the studio anymore."

"Well, I am," he muttered. His forefinger traced the string of eleven numbers he knew by heart, ghosted the call button. He imagined the voice at the other end, tinny and nasal, the pleased and excited _'Paulie!'_ he'd hear when he picked up. George still wasn't saying anything, just giving him that look; he sighed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Why do we always have to talk about my issues, anyway? Why can't we talk about yours sometime?"

"Oh, because your life has so much more of them," George grinned. "I mean, I'm in the most loving, healthy, and stable relationship of my life, plus I meditate. No issues here to dredge up. _You_ , on the other hand..." Paul groaned, falling against the sound booth, and George patted his back. "Hey, man, I'm just kidding, y'know? I love you, Paul, I just want to help you get your life shit together."

"Love you too, asshole," he muttered from where his face was smushed into his elbow. "Do you think I'm particularly happy that everything is turning out the way it is?"

"I've had to assume no, which is why I've been trying to help, you realize."

"I mean, on paper, my life should be grand, right?" he exclaimed, gesturing with his hands. "I've been at Abbey Road, I've got this wonderful beautiful famous fiancee, and...and it's like I've got my whole life in front of me, just laid out, all perfectly designated, and I'm _terrified_. I've never been more terrified or- or miserable, really, in my whole life."

"Miserable?" George questioned, and he sounded sad. Paul sighed, toying with a piece of hair that hung in front of his eyes.

"Strong word...I don't know. I just don't feel... _right_ ," he mumbled, and let his shoulders droop. The rest of that sentence, hanging in his head, went along the lines that he wasn't happy because of _John_ , but he wasn't sure how to bring that up to George yet. Not that John was the entire issue, he realized, and not that not marrying Jane was the solution, he realized (er, maybe).

George, ever the all-knowing, touched him gently on the arm and asked, "Is this all about Jane, really?"

"I dunno," he said, and it was the truth. "I mean, I love Jane. I really do. Even with everything, even all the..." He shook his head. "I really love her. And we've been together for so long, you know? And it just makes sense, getting married. And I know that it's what I'm supposed to do. What I _should_ do." He laughed, shaking his head a bit. "I mean, do you have any idea how happy my da is because of her?"

George rolled his eyes. "Very Jim."

"And I'm...I mean, I really thought that this what I wanted. What I had always wanted. But lately, it's..." he trailed off again, something about John he left unspoken. He sighed. "It's just been different. Between the TV show, and her sort of garnering all this fame, and...the wedding, y'know."

George looked at him a moment, finger curling the linoleum up, his mouth twisted. He leaned forward, his voice shifting into something gentle but equally prodding. "Paul?" he began. "The other day, last week, when John came to the studio...?"

Something fluttered in his chest at the mention of John, and it was a blank moment before he could associate exactly what George was talking about. He nodded, slowly, and George continued.

"Well, y'know, that was the day we drove to work together. And in the car, I asked if there was something wrong with you...between you and John..." he trailed off, goading Paul with a tilt of the head, and he groaned and fell back in his chair.

"George, I told you, I really didn't want to talk about it," he said uneasily.

"But then you said that there _was_ something between the two of you, and I know that you-"

"It's old news."

"But you were so _upset_ ," he said, and for the first time, Paul could tell that he was genuinely worried, eyes dark and flashing as he stared at him. "And you never- I know that you didn't want to talk about it, but it seems like it's still part of what's bothering you."

"Well," he said, and took a deep, unsteady breath. "Yes. I will concede that...yes. It's still bothering me." His mind flashed back to John's hands at his hips, his fingers tangled in his hair. He took another unsteady breath. "But...differently. It's all...it's just, I don't really know how to-"

"Did he hurt you, Paul?" George finally said, and his voice was so laden with worry that Paul instantly felt horrible.

"No, no! Not..." He dragged a hand across his face. "Not like...it's really- it's really complicated, George."

George stared at him, hand to his brow. He wanted to reassure him, genuinely, or at the very least keep him from prying any more. George may have been one of his closest mates, but the entire John situation was not something he was exactly ready to discuss with _anybody_. Including himself.

"But he did something to you."

"I mean..in a way?"

"Paul, this is-"

"I just-" he sighed, putting a hand up. "This is just a hard time, right now." He gave George his best doe eyes; they may have made him look like a 12-year-old girl sometimes, but they seemed to get him what he wanted. George seemed to soften at it, leaning back in his chair again, hands folded flat in his lap. After a bit, he nodded. It was as close as an 'okay' that he was going to get, but he took what he could get.

...

The rest of the day was spent mostly farting around the studio feeling pointless as George Martin worked on technical bits concerning the new studio. His hand remained firmly in pocket, fiddling with the buttons on his phone, and finally, an hour before he was supposed to leave, he gave in and hit the call button after dialing John's number for the umpteenth time. He'd holed himself up in the men's bathroom, which only seemed to lend to the wrongness of it all in a way that made his pulse race and head dizzy. Hearing it buzz and buzz and buzz, he was briefly terrified that John had decided that he hated him after all and that it was all a big joke, but then the tone clicked and he was hearing that same distant tinny voice he'd been imagining all morning.

_"'Ello, this is John Lennon, who's speaking?"_

"Hi," he said, grinning like a fool. "It's me. 'S that specific enough, or should I-"

 _"Paul!"_ he said, and sounded so genuinely happy that he was sure his heart was going to burst. _"Oh, this..."_ There was a bit of rustling, and he heard the distinctive sound of a door closing and locking. _"This is a very welcome surprise."_

"Hi, I just-"

_"So why'd you wait so bloody long to call me, then?"_

He pressed the phone closer to his face, ducking his head . Even in the silence and relative privacy of the bathroom, he could feel his face burn, as though all of Abbey Road was listening in as he spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones.

"Erm, I...I guess I don't know, really."

 _"I was starting to get afraid you'd gotten scared already,"_ he said, and there was something taunting in his tone that made Paul irritated and self-conscious in equal strides.

"M'not scared," he scoffed. "I've just been busy, s'all."

_"Why don't you come over then?"_

Paul stumbled over his words, halting mid-sentence. "I...what?"

_"Why don't you come over to my house?"_

"Like- later in the week, or-"

_"Like right now."_

"Right now?"

_"Why not?"_

The strange buzzing was back in his chest, and his hand fluttered to rest between the buttons of his shirt unconsciously. He bit his lip, side-eyed the mirror, and suddenly all he could think of once more was the feeling of John's hands at the small of his back, desperately tugging them closer and closer together. He took a faltering breath.

"Is that...is that a good idea, John?"

There was a beat of silence. _"Why wouldn't it be?"_ he asked, and sounded almost irritated. _"Just for a drink, or...something."_

He screwed his eyes shut. This was it. This was really it, he was really in it now. This was every movie about cheating spouses, and _he_ was the other woman; movie knowledge taught him that this could only end poorly, and he knew that. Visions of Cynthia coming home early from work, catching them in the act, swirled in his head. He swallowed harshly, then groaned. Who the hell _was_ he? He wasn't the _other woman_ ; he was engaged, he was straight, and most importantly, he wasn't having a _bloody affair_ with John.

"John, I just really don't think it's a good idea," he said, trying his best to sound firm and self-assured.

Another long beat of silence. Paul folded his lips into a line, not daring to breathe, waiting for him to speak.

 _"Are you really doing this?"_ was what he finally said, clearly exasperated.

"Doing- doing what?"

 _"You can't just take it back, you know,"_ he snapped. _"What happened, happened. And you liked it, Paul, so don't-"_

"John, I told you, this is- this is just really, really confusing-"

 _"So why don't you come over so we can talk about it?"_ he shot back. There was more rustling, then a small sigh. _"Listen, it's- I'm not going to try anything on you, okay? You want to talk about this, so we'll talk about this. I'm already going ahead and cancelling the rest of my day."_

"John-"

 _"Paul,"_ he said, and he could imagine the gentle smile accompanying it perfectly. _"It's okay. My house. How soon can you be there? 10 minutes?"_

He blubbered, still feeling very much like this was all a rollercoaster ride he'd been strapped into without his consent. His head felt fuzzy; Jane was waiting for him at home, and he didn't want this, but there was no excuse for why his mind still wandered back to thoughts of John's lips on the sensitive skin beneath his jaw. He sucked in a harsh breath between his teeth.

"10 minutes?" he echoed weakly.

 _"It's just me, Paul,"_ he said, and that was finally what did him in. In the end, it was still just John; the same John he had known since he was 14 years old. Not a stranger, not a philandering adulterer in a French film. John, who tasted like cigarettes and always had his hair in his eyes and looked at the world like it was out to get him. John, the man he'd waited a decade for. If he was going to do this with anyone, he supposed, he wouldn't have wanted it to be anybody else.

"Okay," he finally said, and squeezed his eyes shut. "Okay. Give me 15 minutes."

_"10 minutes. See you soon, Paulie."_

"John, I can't-"

Then the dial clicked. He stood still, then lowered his hand to stare at his phone, as though John's shit-eating grin would pop up out of it. He sighed, and put it back in his pocket.

...

Semi-true to his word, 12 minutes and 30-odd seconds later, Paul was walking up the stoop to John's door. He'd explained it away to George Martin as another business meeting; George, now almost entirely consumed by his own business concerning the new studio, had all but dismissed him with a wave of the hand. Still feeling sheepish over his last conversation with the other George, he'd snuck out without saying goodbye. He knew he could only keep the truth about John away from him for so long before he started to catch on, and he was all for delaying that realization as long as possible.

So now, he was here, playing hooky from work again to spend the afternoon at John's house. This time felt much different though, of course; he wouldn't have put it in as simple terms as that their relationship had changed, because, again, it really was still just him and John; rather, it was that there was this new _thing_ , this new element to it that maybe included the fact that John had kissed him twice now, and that it was maybe something they had both been thinking about for some time.

He stood, having rung the doorbell two times, wiping his hands on the front of his trousers again and again, sweating like a pig and as tense as an over-tuned E string. He was brought back, ironically, to the day that he'd gone to audition for John's band; he remembered it as a stuffily humid day in late June, miserably hot in one of the few ratty old sweaters he'd had the mind to bring to Liverpool with him, guitar strapped tightly to his back. He'd stood, then, waiting for John like he was waiting for the inevitable release of a guillotine blade; he stood now, twelve years later, in a startlingly similar state of mind.

The door swung open without much ado; John poked his head around it, smiling in a way that almost seemed bashful. He didn't reach out for Paul, as he thought he might have, nor did he say anything. As way of invitation, he stepped to the side, opening the door further, and Paul was all but willing to comply. He stepped into the threshold, and it was there he stood, awkwardly, still in his overcoat, as John continued to say nothing. He was busying himself with the coat rack, adjusting the pegs, in a way that seemed cloyingly ostensible: as though it were just something to keep him from having to look at or talk to Paul. It was incredibly out of character, but this brought him strange solace; it proved that John really was just as nervous as he was. This brought a small grin to his face, one that finally gave him enough confidence to speak; that in all of this, John wasn't any more sure than he was. That they really were in it together.

"It's good to see you," was what he said, and at this, John finally turned around. His eyes flitted up and down Paul once, quickly, then snapped back to his eyes. He gave him a lopsided smile, still not looking so sure of himself.

"You sure as hell waited long enough to call me," he muttered, side-stepping Paul to continue on into the kitchen. He trailed behind him, still hanging on to his coat and bag, feeling more out of place in this overlarge house than he ever had. Everywhere, he felt the presence of John's family, his wife, his real life. A pair of tiny blue Croc's discarded thoughtlessly in the hallway, a tube of lipstick carelessly tossed on a side table, a framed picture of the three happily-smiling Lennons hanging askew on the wall: it all added up to something that felt like walking on a crisp white carpet in muddy Wellingtons, and he had the sudden urge to step out of his shoes and wash his hands, run out the front door back to his own real life. But then John was calling over his shoulder, "Do you want anything to eat?"

"No, I already had lunch," he replied distantly, finally catching up to John in the kitchen. He was slumped over the counter as though he'd been there for ages, simply waiting for Paul to walk in. An apple hung lazily in his hand, twirling with flicks of his wrist, as he paged distractedly through a stack of papers. There was a single bite out of it, as perfect and neat as an illustration in a children's book. He watched, transfixed, as he brought it to his mouth to take another bite of it; their gazes snagged on one another's mid-bite, juice dripping down John's chin, and he giggled in spite of himself.

"What're 'ou 'ookin' at?" John asked, mouth full of apple, but his eyes were crinkled in that particular pleased way. Paul said nothing, but crossed the room to stand beside him at the counter. John seemed to purposefully ignore this, which was, again, quite unlike himself; he continued to eat his apple, seemingly quite busy with it and his papers. Paul sat at one of the barstools, sitting his bag in his lap like a schoolboy. John's eyes remained firmly on his papers.

After a moment, he nudged him with his foot. "I thought you'd told me to come over so we could _talk_ ," he said. "Not eat apples and look at our very important business papers."

"Mm," John said, which wasn't really much of a response, but put down the paper he'd been reading. "All in due time, Macca."

"Been a while since you called me that one," he grinned. "I thought I was just 'Paulie' these days."

"What can I say? I've been feelin' nostalgic lately," he said flippantly, standing up suddenly and walking to the fridge. He put his head in it, rooting around in the same ostensible manner, all the more apparent that he really just wanted to avoid looking at Paul. He rolled his eyes, and kicked him in the back of the shin.

"You're nervous," he said flatly, and John shot him a scowl over his shoulder.

"What does that even mean?"

"You are," he continued. "It's quite unlike you, is all. That's the only reason I'm pointing it out."

"...right," he replied, but sounded uneasy. He popped his head back in the fridge, asking a moment later, "So, care for an alcoholic beverage?"

"I'll take a beer."

"Right," he said, and tossed a can to him.

"Why're you nervous?" Paul went on, and John finally properly turned around, scowling in a way that brought back the meanness and hardness to his face that Paul remembered from their teenage years. The way he'd look before cursing Stu out, or screaming into the microphone.

"I'm not nervous," he all but spat, and twisted the lid off his beer in one quick motion, as though he were snapping a neck. He brought it to his lips swiftly, crossing the room once more with his shoulders tense. A bad feeling was brewing in Paul's stomach, one of bitter anticipation; he was beginning to think that this talk with John was not going to be exactly what he'd expected, much less what he'd wanted.

"Let's go outside," John called gruffly over his shoulder, and Paul went along with it. He observed his movements tersely, as though he were a bull that might spring from its pen, and kept a suitable distance. He had a hard enough time understanding John even when he was in one of his more giving moods, but when he was like this, all closed up, he was truly in over his head. Still, he reminded himself, John had been the one to invite him over; that had to mean that at some point today, at least, he'd wanted to see him.

They settled down on the porch, Paul sitting primly in the loveseat and John in one of the chairs across from him. John took long swigs of his beer one-handed with the sort of urgency that suggested someone might be along to steal it from him, distractedly shrugging his coat off and loosening his tie with the other hand. Then, from his pocket, he brought out a familiar crumpled gold-and-white package, tapping out a ciggie with shaking hands and searching for a lighter on the table.

"You still smoke those?" Paul asked, not bothering to hide his disgust. John shot him a look, face momentarily alighted as he lit the end, then took a long drag.

"Sorry, Saint Paulie, that I eat God's creatures and blast my lungs," he muttered, ciggie bouncing up and down between his lips as he spoke. "Course I still smoke. Not all of us are so reformed."

"I never smoked, in case you can't remember," he responded lightly, picking at his fingernail. Then, feeling a brief swell of confidence, he added, "I wouldn't even think about kissing you again if your mouth tasted like smoke."

At that, John slowly raised his gaze to meet Paul's. Something glinted in his eyes, and, rather dramatically, he tossed his ciggie to the wooden flooring and extinguished it under his shoe. He gave Paul a trying look, but when he ducked his head he could swear there was some hint of a smile working its way in there.

"Better?" he asked hoarsely.

"Much," he responded, smiling back at him, but felt it fade slowly; something unreadable had crossed John's face, souring his expression again. "So, er...why'd you want me to come over, then?"

John raised a single eyebrow. "To talk."

" _About_..." he tried goading, but John just continued to give him a look. He sighed. "John, I really don't-"

"Do you want this or not?" John finally snapped.

"Want- want...what?" he stuttered, and John groaned, bringing his head down to his lap and placing his head between his hands. He stayed like that for a moment before popping up, clearly agitated.

"I still can't fucking tell with you, Paul," he said. "You're so fucking...I mean, I'm just..." He stopped himself, sighing deeply. "It's like you just go away from me, sometimes. You put a mask on, and you go away."

Paul stared back at him, feeling the breath whoosh from his lungs. "That's rich," he said weakly. "Coming from the guy who didn't talk to me for ten years. Talk about...fucking...'going away.'"

"You're such an idiot," John spat. "You really still don't get it, do you?"

"Get _what?_ " he cried, sitting up further. "You aren't bloody telling me anything, John! What is there for me to get? You're-"

"That I like you, alright?" he said, loudly, then went still. It seemed that he hadn't exactly meant to say it, mouth still slightly parted and mind visibly whirring; he swallowed, hard, then continued, "I like you...quite a bit, Paul."

"Well," he mumbled. "I like you too, I don't-"

"Not..." John began, then sighed and screwed his eyes shut. "Not like that, Paul."

He sat still for a moment. The weight of that announcement wasn't quite sinking in fully; he clasped his hands together, glancing desperately around, trying to piece it all together. "You...um..."

"I _like_ you."

"...oh," was what he finally said, feeling like the biggest idiot in the entire world. "So, when you, erm, when you k-kissed me, that was-"

"It was something I'd been thinking about for a long time, yeah," John muttered. He didn't seem so joyous about it as most people did upon declarations of this type; he seemed weary, tired, as though he himself was burdened by such knowledge. Forget being strapped into a rollercoaster ride: Paul felt as though someone had just thrown him off the top of the bloody Big Ben.

He sat for another moment, mind creaking. The only thing he could think of, stupidly, was what Jane had told him: that John had had an affair with another woman, back in Liverpool. Her presence hovered around the edges of all else; for how much could this all really mean to John if he'd done it with another bloody person?

"When you say that..." he started, not quite sure how to phrase it. John was staring at him with eyes the size of flying saucers, skin remarkably pale even in the dying afternoon light. He swallowed hard. "Um, you- well, you had that affair, with another woman, before you came here..." John kept staring at him.

"Yeah?" he said, irritated. Paul shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, er, that's sort of-"

"Who fucking told you about that, anyway?"

"Jane. Er, Cynthia told her, and-"

"Right," he said, voice blistering with anger. "Of course. Well. Lovely." He sat back in his seat, pure anger boiling beneath his expression then, and downed the rest of his beer. He looked annoyedly at Paul, then continued, "I won't try and say that I was the one in the right there, alright? I fucked up. That was a- such an _unbelievably_ shitty time in my life, and..." He stared up, then pointed at the dregs of Paul's own beer. "Mind if I finish that?" he asked hoarsely. Paul just shrugged. He grabbed it, then started again. "Er, yes, so, shittiest time of my life...you know that Cynthia did actually cheat on me too, yes? But no, I'm sure you didn't know that, considering this is a five person game of mother-bloody-fucking Telephone you're hearing it through...so. Shitty time for me. And I- I met this woman. And it was like..." He stared off to the side, eyes flinty. "Mutual destruction. Both of us trying to distract ourselves from losing people we'd cared about. And it was a mistake, a horrible mistake, and I hate that you know about it."

Paul felt his breath stick in his throat. "'Losing people we'd cared about?'" he asked, and John's eyes, when they raised to meet his, told him everything he needed to know before he'd even opened his mouth to speak.

" _You_ ," he said, and sighed, gentle. "I lost... _you_ , Paul."

It was then, and only then, that the entirety of the situation seemed to fall upon him. Whatever breath may have been left in his body stilled, and all he could do was stare, in bewilderment, at John. John, the man he'd waited a decade for, who had, in his own words, been _destroyed_ by the loss of Paul in his life. It wasn't every day that you heard someone say something like that to you; not really every lifetime, either. He sank into his seat, feeling the world turn so, so slowly about them, and a feeling he thought he'd forgotten rose in his throat.

And, of course, all he could say to it was, "Well, Christ."

"Is that all you've got to say?" John responded bitingly, but it was half-hearted, likely hiding some greater fragility. It was frustrating; his mind was moving too fast, too confusedly, that he couldn't stop to put any of the proper words to what he was feeling. He took a deep breath, staring up, terrified, at John; his face softened slightly, mouth parting, then settling into something that seemed more sad than angry.

"Do you not feel the same?" he asked, more carefully, bracing his hands on the arms of his chair, and it was only at that that Paul could offer a very sure answer. He shook his head wildly, leaning forward more and placing his hands on the table, as though it was some sort of surrender. "No, _no_ , that's not it," he gushed, and John's rigid posture seemed to break just the slightest with relief. "John, I just- this isn't _easy_ for me, any of it, it's not easy to understand...my feelings, or- or..." he glanced back up at him. "You. Really. Um...which isn't fair, I know."

"Right," he said, stiffly.

"But I'm not running away, alright?" he said, and it was as the words left his mouth that something clicked. He remembered, back in Liverpool, one afternoon that John had gone a bit over his usual threshold for the pilfered beers, and, with a sloppy, drunken tongue, had admitted to Paul this deep-seated, gnawing fear he harbored: that everyone, in the end, was going to leave him. _Because_ , he had reasoned, _how can I expect anyone to stay for me when my own fucking father couldn't?_ As he looked into John's eyes now- and they were beautiful, really, not just brown, but a million shades of sepia glowing in the afternoon light- he could see that _fear_ , and all he could do, all he knew how to do, without words or music, was take John's hand in his.

"Promise?" John said, voice on the edge of breaking, sounding so much just like a scared little kid, and he nodded once, firmly. John's entire body seemed to alleviate at this; he released a harsh breath, shoulders slumping, then, slowly, brought Paul's hand up to his mouth, resting a warm, soft kiss upon his fingers. He closed his eyes, leaned into the motion; for once, he was not thinking, not worrying about what might happen were someone to see them, not feeling guilty for betraying Jane; basically, every single other thing in the world then seemed absolutely inconsequential to John, and he allowed himself to sink into the moment. He leaned forward across the table, bowed his head against John's, pressing their foreheads together, slightly damp from nerves and what else, and sighed softly. John clasped his other hand around Paul's, squeezing it gently once more to his lips, his breath ragged.

"God, I missed you so much," he mumbled. Paul let his eyes flutter open; the other man had his screwed shut, eyebrows furrowed, and it was plain to see that he was trying very hard not to cry. With his free hand, he reached up to brush a strand of hair behind his ear, and John murmured something into his knuckles he didn't quite catch. He leaned back, cleared his throat.

"What was that?" he asked, and John dropped his hand, shaking his head.

"Nothing," he said. He put on a smile that wasn't terribly convincing, then immediately looked back down to his feet. His hands trembled. "Not running away, right?" he asked, a hesitant afterthought.

"Never, John," he repeated, firmly. "As long as you promise the same."

He hummed to himself, nodding thoughtlessly, then began, "It feels like the longer you're back in my life now, the more I seem to miss you." He glanced at Paul, then laughed quickly. "Innit that a bitch, huh?"

"You still miss me?" he asked, and John just snorted.

"Christ, lad...all the bloody time," he said, rubbing the back of his head with his hand. "When I'm at work. When I'm in the car and one of those bleeding horrendous pop songs comes on the radio, I look over and wonder what you'd think." A distant smile crossed his face. "I think of you whenever I hear the Smiths."

"The Smiths!" he laughed. "Christ, that's awful."

"Aye, you're in league with Morrissey now, though, aren't ye?"

"That's a horrible thing to say to someone, Johnny."

"Right," he replied with a grin, then leaned forward, head tilting as though he were suddenly possessed by an entirely different thought. Which, incidentally, seemed to be the case, as he went on, "Hey, why don't you say I go grab us some guitars?"

"Guitars?" he asked. "Why- for what?"

John made a face. "For _playing_ , Paulie. Still a bit soft 'tween the ears, I see."

He rolled his eyes. "I get that, I just mean-"

"Well, we haven't properly played together in..." he cocked his head, pretending to count on his fingers. "Twelve years?"

"It was the Orange 17 concert," he said, knowingly, then scowled down at his empty beer. "I regret telling you you could finish that."

"Don't fret, princess, I'll get you another," he said with an eye roll. "I'll bring them out with the guitars."

"Ah, John, I've gotta get back home-"

"No, you don't."

"And won't Cynthia be home soon?"

Something calcified in John's expression. "No, she won't."

"Wait- why not?"

"She, erm..." he trailed off, looking uncomfortable. "Well, she's actually spending the week with her parents in Hoylake. Brought Julian with her." He cleared his throat. "Er, we had a bit of a row."

Paul took a deep breath, trying to still the thousands of thoughts that instantly sprung to the forefront of his mind. "So, um..." he folded his lips. "Is that what this is, then? You're bored with your wife out of the house? Decide to call on me?"

John spat out a pretty solid "fuck you" before he even had the chance to apologize for that one, standing up and stalking out the door before Paul could grab his shirtsleeve and get him to stay. He cursed to himself, then stood up and followed him back into the house. He'd disappeared down some hallway; he continued muttering a string of curses under his breath as he ducked his head down them, once again annoyed by the horrible layout of this massive house, annoyed too at himself for saying a thing like that to John, but perhaps most of all annoyed at John, who'd left out the pretty important detail that his marriage was seemingly in shambles when he'd decided to unload this whole emotional mess on Paul.

By the unconscious tripping of his feet, he found himself spat up by some hallway back into the kitchen; he stopped before walking any further, staying beneath the shadow of the threshold and holding his breath in his throat, to watch John. He was leaned over the counter, shoulders rising and falling arrhythmically, face buried deep in his hands; he looked so bloody _small_ then, so utterly defeated, that it just about broke Paul's heart all over again. He sighed, and stepped forward into the light.

"I didn't mean it," he began hoarsely as means of introducing his presence, and John's head jerked up; over his shoulder, there was something raw and broken in his expression, but he quickly retracted with a snarl as though to swiftly cover whatever sign of vulnerability there may have briefly been. He brushed past Paul and returned once more to the fridge to further the appearance of busying himself.

"Right," he said, louder than perhaps necessary. There was a brief pause, the clinks of glass jars being shoved aside. From behind the opened door, he continued, "Just like we never mean any of the horrible things we say to each other."

Paul frowned, circling the counter to stand directly behind John, carefully watching the way his head seemed to aimlessly search shelf-to-shelf. Cool air, white fluorescents drifted downwards, dispersing into the uncomfortably warm kitchen. Paul held his head firmly as he spoke. "John, I really didn't mean it."

"Like I said," he began, slamming the fridge door shut to punctuate the pause he took. "We _never_ mean any of the things we say."

Paul sighed, suddenly feeling as though he'd just run ten miles in the rain uphill; as though his exhaustion, his exasperation had settled somewhere deep into his bones and he was struck with the overwhelming realization that all this bickering was bloody _pointless_ ; he took a step forward, turning John around and taking his hands in his. To his credit, John didn't move or curse or slap him; he stood still, like a stunned rabbit in the headlights of a semi-truck, eyes flitting up and down Paul. His throat bobbed, and Paul tried to goad him with a small smile.

"John," he began.

"You're so bloody _hot and cold_ ," John shot back, though it came out something more like a whine than anything. "All the _time_ , Paul, Christ, I just wish you would- if you could just _say_ \- or if you would just let me know what's going on up there-" and he lightly bonked the side of Paul's head with his knuckles for emphasis, prompting a rather unconscious giggle from him, which in turn caused John to smile sort of in bewilderment and perhaps tenderness at him, and to leave his knuckles there, and draw his hand further up into Paul's hair. Then he closed his eyes firmly, took a deep sort of breath and seemed to steel himself before continuing, "I don't want to be alone in this."

"You're not- I'm _here_ , John."

"I mean..." he sighed, eyes still squeezed shut, head swaying lightly on slumped shoulders. "I mean, really here, here with me. For real. Not in your head." His eyes opened, fluttering unsurely, prompting Paul to cut in.

"Why do you think I'm not here, with you?"

"Well," he began in a slightly chuffed tone. "You know how you are. You..." He stopped himself, shaking his head regretfully, hand drifting down to brush almost paternally at Paul's upper arm, but he swatted at him and shook him to continue.

"I'm _what_ , John?"

"In your head," he mumbled, hesitantly. "Which I- that's what I was trying to say earlier. And, you know that you're like that, so don't even-"

"I'm _thoughtful_ ," he scowled in return, feeling his cheeks burn. The truth was, of course, exactly what John was saying, and not even in a particularly cruel way; he _was_ in his head most of the time, prone to overthought in the worst ways, constantly doubting himself and his actions. But knowing that, it still just wasn't something he wanted flung back in his face; especially not now, not then, with John inches from his face and what felt like Jell-O beneath his feet and his entire world threatening to buck and give; no, now was not the time for this, not the time to be accused of _not being there_ , and so he did the only non-sensible, thoughtless, and entirely self-indulgent thing he could think to do, which was to step forward and kiss him.

John was clearly taken aback; for a moment, he seemed too shocked to move his mouth an inch either way, raise his arms from where they were limp by his sides. Paul, taking advantage of this sudden reversal in power, grabbed him by both sides of the head and ran his tongue along the inseam of his lips, parted them, pushed in experimentally; the interior of his mouth was cold, crisp, lingering traces of the half-eaten apple coupling with the stale burn of beer. For a moment, John still didn't move, and his stomach plunged at the earth-shattering embarrassment of it all, just about to pull back, when John, overcoming the initial snag in mental processes, seemed to glitch back to life; in a sudden jolt he returned to kiss him back hungrily, and his hands, too, went to the sides of Paul's head, pulling him down into the kiss with enough force to bruise his lips. Paul, half-shocked with a giggle, moved to wrench his head back but found himself stuck between John's hands, constantly pulling him in closer, and it was at this that whatever long-held, closely-harbored feelings of doubt, fear, guilt, finally and gently melted away, as though they were but a single sliver of an ice cube dissipating into the warm recesses of a hot cup of tea. Something began to boil over inside him; all pretenses of self-control and composure seemed to be disappearing as well, as twelve years worth of poorly-repressed want, desire, began to plague his motor functions and he found their kiss growing sloppier, angrier, more forceful. John's mouth was now almost obscenely hot against his, biting and tugging at his lower lip between teeth in a way so foreign and unbelievably hot to Paul that it was just about all he could do then not to simply tackle the other man to the floor of the kitchen. _The kitchen_ , he realized in a vague sort of way, where they still were; where their hands were wrenched desperately in each other's hair, where John was biting his bottom lip with enough force to draw blood, where he was bucking in a quite embarrassing way against John's thigh, feeling such an unbelievable mounting growth of _pressure_ inside of him that it was like some long-forgotten spigot inside was nearly ready to explode.

It was then, and only then, that John finally pushed him too far; he jolted hard against him and his knees buckled, unable to support both their body weights, and they both fell quite ungracefully and rather baby-giraffe-like, to the kitchen floor, one atop the other.

They both began to laugh; it'd been so long since he heard John laugh like that, so completely uninhibited and un-self-conscious, halting and giggly like a little boy, that he felt his chest swell with a strange, heretofore unknown buoyancy, and for a moment it was all he could do to simply cup John's smiling face in his hands, revel in the wonder that was this strange, beautiful man. Then he shifted, John on top of Paul, pinning his head between his elbows and bringing the hard weight of his pelvis down against his cock. He took a short, harsh breath, and they were at it again.

To some extent, the wonderful foreignness of it all _had_ to be part of what was driving him so mad; to have wanted John for so long, and now to have him in the living flesh atop him, scrabbling madly for his belt buckle and attacking his mouth with a ferocity he'd never been the receiving end of before was the cause of what seemed to be his very immediate downfall. With girls there had always been hesitancy, gentleness, plying to beget intimacy; John was now so insistent, so palpably _hungry_ for him, that his brain seemed to lag several steps behind all that was happening. John's body was hard in all the ways a girl's never was, heavy against him, stubble burning his lips as their kisses grew even sloppier. He'd never done anything like this before, of course; even barring whatever he felt for John, he'd always held desperate pride in what he believed was steadfast heterosexuality, but at least judging from the nearly-painful boner straining his trousers, he wasn't so entirely sure how steadfast that had ever been.

"Can I- can... _fuck_ ," John groaned breathlessly, fingers tangled messily in Paul's hair and clutching hard. He pulled up for just a moment, and the sight of him sent a jolt right to his cock: pupils blown out, eyes heavily lidded, lips swollen and red. Damp, soft tufts of auburn hair clung to his forehead, stuck with sweat, and without thinking, he reached up to brush them away. His fingers trailed back to cup his head, caress the hair there, and John's eyes fluttered closed again.

"Alright?" he asked, his voice cracking between syllables. John's eyes flew open again, and a wicked smirk filled his face.

"Quite," he said lowly, and lowered himself back down against him. A shuddered, broken moan escaped him, and John only kissed harder, yanked his hair upwards to draw them even closer. It was a strangely delicious mix of pain and pleasure he was experiencing, all that only aided to the still mounting pressure, and then, when he thought he could not possibly stand another minute without losing himself, John was plunging his hand right to the white-hot center of it all, and before he realized what was happening he was bucking upwards and coming right into John's hand. John didn't move; he buried his head in Paul's neck, oddly still for a moment before losing all the tension in his body and collapsing atop him.

After a moment, when he was no longer so unsure that his voice might run away from him, he took a deep, haltering breath, and asked, "Um...did you...?"

"Yes," John mumbled, head still buried beneath Paul's. He sighed, body burning, and shifted just slightly. John didn't seem to be making any moves to get off of him, and strangely enough, even as sticky and hot and instantly drained he felt, he felt no desire to move either.

That is, of course, if his phone hadn't started buzzing at that exact moment.

John nuzzled his head in the crook of his neck and started kissing him softly there, fingers threaded through his hair. He sighed, deeply, breath catching in his throat, briefly forgetting for a moment the insistent ringing coming from his front pocket which was trapped, of course, between their bodies.

"Mate," he mumbled softly, drumming his fingers against John's back lightly, feeling the first seed of anxiety germinate deep somewhere in his belly. The buzzing continued, as did John's kisses. "John," he said, more insistently, attempting to pull himself up on his elbow. John's mouth detached from his neck, eyes flittering up to meet his.

"You're really going to call me 'mate' after what we just did?" he asked, almost scowling, but Paul just had to shake his head.

"Look, it's-"

"Can't you let it go to voicemail?"

"It could be Jane."

He regretted it as soon he said it, even if it was a truth he felt right down to that growing anxious sprout in his stomach. John maintained his gaze for a moment, but something died behind his eyes, and he hoisted himself off of Paul curtly.

"I didn't mean-"

"Whatever, Paul," he muttered, using the edge of the kitchen counter to pull himself up on to his feet. He looked down at himself, brushing his shirt down and sighing. "I'm gonna go...wash up."

" _John_ -" he started, pushing himself up properly on to his elbows, but it seemed to be no use: the damage was done. John was walking away.

"Take your bloody phone call," he called over his shoulder, disappearing into the hallway. He groaned, fidgeting for a moment and entirely unsure if he should run after him or not, but the buzzing just continued and without even thinking he found his hand shoving in and out of his front pocket for his flip phone. He hit the 'accept call' button at the last moment, bringing it to his ear hurriedly without even checking the caller ID.

"Yes, hello?" he asked distractedly, fiddling one-handed with the fly of his trousers.

_"Paul, love?"_

Fuck. It was none other than Jane. Of course it was. Who _else_ would call him after his bloody gay tryst in the kitchen than his fiancee? He took a deep, shaky breath, and managed a very weak, "Mm, Jane? Yes? Hello?"

_"Paul, will you pick up the dry cleaning on your way home from Abbey Road? I swear to god, I talked to my mother about it but-"_

"Right, course, I've got it, love," he murmured quickly, doing up the zipper in one swift motion. There was a beat of very certain silence, the vibrating deadness of the static carrying over into Paul's stomach, churning up even newer anxieties.

 _"Paul?"_ she asked, and her voice sounded small. _"Was that the sound of your trouser zipper?"_

He squeezed his eyes shut, firming his lips into a straight line. "Um...yes, well, er, you happened to call right as I was, uh, at the loo, y'see..."

There was another brief pause; he felt his entire soul sink into it, affirming every fear he'd ever felt. In that moment, the impossible seemed the only reality. He was certain that Jane had gone to Abbey Road, had found out from George Martin that he was here, had peeked through the window just as John _bloody_ Lennon was making him come in his pants, and this was all some elaborate ploy to force the truth out. He took another deep breath, but was interrupted by Jane's brusque voice muttering, _"That's gross, Paul,"_ over the line.

He had never been happier to hear that in his entire life.

 _"Well, right, just get the dry cleaning,"_ she went on.

"Right, of course-"

_"Carry out from the Indian place for dinner? Or pasta."_

"Um-"

_"We probably want pasta tonight, don't we?"_

"Love, whatever you want."

 _"Right,"_ she said. _"Well, see you at home. Bye, love. Ta."_

"Bye, Ja-"

But she had already hung up.

At that, he let himself fall backward into the floor, really let his head hit hard against the ceramic tiling and let himself relish in that small pain. His hand, still clutching his flip phone in a death grip, fell limp to his chest. It was all he could do for a moment to breathe, slow and haltered as it may have been, and let the reality of this situation sink into him. He had made John _bloody_ Lennon come in his pants. And vice versa. _He_ had _done that_. A giggle rose up in his chest, despite the anxiety, guilt, fear residing there as well. That had been...well, he could think of no other description than _amazing_ , really. He felt new, somehow, as though some part of him had been reborn in that moment. And now, Christ, all he really wanted to do was hug him.

"John?" he called out, excitedly. "M'off the phone."

No response came, unsurprisingly. Sighing, he pulled himself up onto his feet and went to search for the man, cringing a bit and thinking that he should probably at least have a change of pants before heading back to the townhouse.

"Jo-o-ohn," he yelled further, looking about. "Where are- oh. Hi."

He poked his head round the corner of an open door and found John standing over the sink in what must have been the powder room. His face dripped with water, cheeks flushed, as though he'd just dunked his head under the faucet. He looked to be the most gorgeous person Paul had ever seen. He grimaced all the same at him, then buried his face in a towel.

"I'm off the phone," he repeated, feeling rather stupid all of a sudden. John didn't say anything, just wiped his face once over before tossing the towel over his shoulder. He cocked a single eyebrow at Paul, walking past him into the hallway. "Are we going to-"

"Was that Jane?" he asked over his shoulder, walking in a way that seemed quite determinedly faster than Paul.

"Er, yes, but it wasn't- it wasn't like, I mean, she was just asking me to pick up the dry cleaning, it wasn't..." he trailed off, suddenly entirely unsure how he might attempt to finish that sentence. John had led them back into the kitchen, where he now stood, yet again, in front of the fridge.

"Listen, Paul," he said, quietly. "I think it's just best if you go, yeah?"

"Oh, I- you want me to go?"

"You have dry cleaning to pick up, don't you?" he said drily, and Paul had never felt more bloody useless than in his entire life.

"Well, I mean...I thought I might stay a bit, maybe, just-"

"Paul," he said again, shaking his head just slightly, eyes squeezed shut. "Please just go."

It was then, he knew, that there was nothing he could say then to fix it, not then, not with his stupid, thick tongue. He felt a lump rise in his throat, a warmth overtake his face. He stuttered out a pretty pathetic "okay" and turned around, walked to the doorway, but he couldn't stop himself, really, and he knew that. And in some way, he had always known that. He looked once over his shoulder, just as he would always do, and saw that John was slumped against the refrigerator, pressing his forehead into the door, and crying.

He'd think, sometimes, of what might have happened if he'd walked out the door that day, had gone to pick up the dry cleaning for Jane, had gone home to another pasta dinner or what else and had left John there to cry on his own, had turned his back on it all.

But of course, he hadn't.

And of course, everything was going to have to change because of that.


	15. Within You Without You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally an update! :D this chapter was a doozy to write but i hoooope it was all worth it. while trying to beat writer's block for this I started work on another little fic i've had in that works which i'll probably post before the next chapter of this one so...stay tuned for some nice fluff type stuff :^)
> 
> also i'd like to apologize in advance; the angst is pretty heavy in this one lmao but I SWEAR there's a happy ending! I think there's probably gonna be like ~2-3 more chapters 
> 
> as always the comments, kudos, and love i get astound me. y'all are the best. stay safe, stay healthy, donate to charities, vote in your local elections if you can. and keep reading :)

The dry cleaning hadn't gotten picked up, of course.

Jane, for all her distractions over the past few months, had not lost her uncannily frightening sense of perception when it came to knowing Paul had done something. Though, to be fair, he was sure any person, even the dullest of the dullards, would have known _something_ was strange when their fiancé returned home an hour and 45 minutes later than they said they would with no dry cleaning to speak of and perhaps a little more unkempt than was explicable. But Jane, beautiful, terrifying Jane, was not just merely piqued to the notion that maybe something kooky was happening; it was like she could bloody _smell_ it on him.

"Bad commute home, hm?" was all she began with upon him walking through the door. She was sitting primly on the couch, ankles crossed, looking for all the world to have no ill thoughts towards him. A sweetly absent smile was painted across her face. Then, in the same breath, she pointed to him and said, "No dry cleaning?"

"Oh," he said, momentarily caught off guard. He shook his head quickly, feigning absent-mindedness. "Shit. Sorry, love, I completely forgot." Lamely, he added, "Lost track of time, too. Sorry. Lots of craziness at the studio. George Martin's getting geared to leave within the month, I think."

"George Martin said that you left the studio an hour early," she said, calmly, and he felt every modicum of serenity vacate his body instantly. His feet tripped sideways; unthinking, all he could do was shake his head fervently, mouth fumbling for an excuse, but Jane simply raised her hand as though to stop him. He did, and stared blankly at her. She pressed her mouth forward, and when she spoke again, it was notably much less calm. "Don't even try any excuses, Paul. I called the studio _an hour ago_ after you still weren't home." Her gaze finally broke away from his, something furious churning in her eyes. "George Martin is such a lovely man, I can't believe you treat him that way."

Paul was, at least to that moment, frozen in place, but her last comment broke some levee down inside him. He dropped his bags to the floor, scoffing as he crossed the living room floor.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," was all he could say, laughing weakly towards the end of his sentence as though this were all some enormous joke against him. Jane's eyes merely narrowed.

"No idea what I'm talking about, Paul, really?" she shot back. "You are home almost two hours late. Even _that_ would be- but it wasn't even _just_ that, right? Because I call George Martin and he says you left work a _bloody hour early!_ "

His heart was moving about a million miles faster than his mind; the blood was pounding furiously between his ears, so much so that he could barely think, barely hear himself speak.

"It's not what you think it is," he tried, and something seemed to snap behind Jane's carefully arranged face. She stood to her feet, swiftly, and crossed the room to stand in front of him. What he could only surmise was pure, unadulterated _wrath_ was burning in her expression.

"Oh, so what is it then, Paul?" she said, tone verging on maniacal. "Run off to George and Pattie's again, then?"

"Seriously, you have _no_ idea what you're talking about."

"You walked out on me!" she cried, and suddenly he realized this was so, _so_ much fucking bigger than he thought it was; this was four years of resentment and anger and carelessness all boiled down into this one moment, all building to this instant inside of both of them that was going to tear everything down. He took a sharp breath, and looked Jane dead in the eyes.

"It was _not_ that," he said, firmly. "Jane. Don't even bloody go there."

"So, where were you then?"

For a brief and terrifying instant Paul had half a mind to simply tell her everything: to break down right then and there, fall to his knees and tell her the horrible and enormous truth, a disastrous truth spent twelve years in the making, festering and boiling until now, now, that everything was finally threatening to burst at the seams. But _this_ truth: he wasn't even sure how he could begin to tell Jane, figure twelve years of bitter resentment, crippling obsession, repressed lust into something even _speakable_. Now, of course, a truth he didn't even want to admit to himself; the reason his hands shook so badly even now, the dried rivulets of tears staining his cheeks.

"I was at John's," he began slowly, carefully. "And listen, I-" He took another deep breath, and squeezed his eyes shut. Speaking at this point was almost physically painful. "You're right. That was stupid, and rude to George Martin- leaving work early, y'know. But fuck's sake, Jane...I- I have been under so much...so much fucking _stress_ lately, so much worry and stress and anxiety about the future and the wedding and everything, _everything_ , and I just...I just wanted to go and have an afternoon where I could drink with a friend and not have to think about any of that. Okay?"

For the most part, what he had said had not been a lie. He _was_ stressed out, more so than he'd been in his entire life, and he _had_ wanted to have an afternoon involving drinking where he didn't have to think about any of that. The only part he'd left out was that he'd also spent a considerable portion of that afternoon pinned beneath John Lennon getting tossed off, but that was besides the point. Lying, he figured, was not exactly the same as exclusion of the truth.

"Oh," Jane said, and he could see in her eyes the slow dissipation of anger fizzling out like water on a frying pan. Her shoulders slumped; her face sagged. She shook her head, slowly, and finally looked back up into his eyes. "I didn't know," she said, a weak protest.

"I know," he said, then added, truthfully, "And that hasn't been all your fault, I know. I haven't...I guess I haven't really talked about it much."

"I wish you had told me you were feeling this way, Paul, I-"

Her face was threatening to give way to tears, and his chest seized at the sight; for a moment, he was entirely back in John's house earlier that afternoon, cradling the man's crying head against his chest, but he forced his eyes to blink and shut it all away, at least temporarily. _Compartmentalize_.

"Jane, love-"

"Oh, Paul," she said, and the tears gave way; she collapsed against his chest, sobbing, and he put his arms around her. He couldn't even begin to think how much this was reminding him of John.

_"I'm just terrified of losing you again," John had muttered, though it clearly strained him. "Feelings of whatever aside...I just want you in my life."_

He took a deep breath and ran his hands across Jane's back. Jane's slight, womanly back, curving beneath his palms. So small against him. This was what he wanted; this was what he was supposed to want. And he did, he did, he had wanted this, wanted her, for four years. He was marrying her. It was what he was going to want for the rest of his life.

_"I don't want to lose you either," he'd murmured, and placed a small kiss atop John's head. He left his mouth there, let the moment linger; John's hair was soft, and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. He brought his fingers into it and sighed deeply. He'd never wanted anyone so badly-_

Paul squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to tell her. It had never seemed more clear to him, then, with her crying into his chest, hugging onto him like a buoy in a storm but somehow further away from him than she'd ever been. He needed to tell her everything: not even just the John parts, but the parts he'd been thinking about for a long time. How maybe he didn't think they should get married. How maybe he'd been thinking that for a longer time than he wanted to admit to himself.

"I love you," Jane said through a slough of tears, and he felt his entire body stiffen. Her eyes hesitantly rose up beneath soppy lashes, and there was something brittle, fragile there that he was so terrified of breaking that he blurted, without thinking, "I love you, too."

"I'm sorry I haven't done a very good job of showing it to you lately," she sniffled. "It's just been..." She sighed, and her eyes closed. "It's been hard for me, too, Paul."

And in that moment, he completely believed her. How could it not have been hard for her, really? To be thrust into the spotlight after a lifetime of normalcy; to be under the constant scrutiny of a manager so dominating as Nina? And all the while, to unwittingly have had her fiancé cheating on her? Because that was what it was, after all, Paul reminded himself firmly. Cheating. He closed his eyes, and brought his lips to her forehead.

"I know, Jane," he said, and had never meant it more in his entire life. "And I'm sorry."

...

"You're a fucking idiot."

That was George, of course. He'd gone over under the pretense of wanting a nightcap (not that he didn't want that, of course), but mainly through sheer fucking terror of the situation he'd gotten himself into. There couldn't be any more hiding of his imploding personal life from George; he figured it was best to at least talk to him about it himself rather than leave him to come to his own conclusions. And so, he was sitting on the floor of George's living room, two glasses deep into a bottle of whiskey, hands shaking so badly he had to fold them in his lap. He hadn't been able to work up the nerve to exactly tell George about the entire situation yet, as it went. He'd mostly grumbled about Jane, dancing around the real issue, and listened distantly as George went on a rather impassioned anti-Jane tirade.

"I'm not...I'm not trying to be an idiot," he said flatly, nudging his foot against the wall.

"Well, you're bloody well doing a pretty good impression of one."

"Thanks."

"It just feels like this keeps happening, right?" George said, punctuating this with a deep swig. There was something bitter in his expression, his tone, something that Paul couldn't place. George wasn't stupid; he was sure he already had his suspicions, and the entire point of coming over that night was to try and tell him about John, but every time he thought about it his stomach swooped and he had to dig his nails deep into his palms to keep from throwing up all over the carpet.

"Yeah," he said weakly, the vaguest answer he could manage.

It was a considerable minute of silence before George spoke again. He twirled his glass, eyebrows furrowed deeply in contemplation, mouth thinning and jaw shifting as though there was something he was thinking and rethinking how to phrase. His eyes flitted to meet Paul's, and they seemed sad, more than anything.

"There's something else, though, isn't there?"

Paul felt the breath in his lungs still. He stared firmly at the carpet for a moment, unable to bear looking at George. He could feel his cheeks burning already, but he knew that if he let this fester and boil inside him any longer it was only going to be his destruction. He heaved a great sigh, then finally nodded, reluctantly. George's demeanor seemed to change at this; he shifted more towards Paul, letting the angle of his shoulders soften. He felt some sense of reassurance at this, somewhat. He knew, no matter what, that George wasn't going to judge him for feeling this way; it was simply a matter of getting the words out of his mouth without throwing up from the shame and guilt and awkwardness.

"Um..." he began, twiddling with his fingers in his lap. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest, like a caged rabbit. He shook his head. "Um, well, there's been stuff with... _John_ , actually."

George stared at him for a moment, his face unconsciously folding into something of pure astonishment.

"I bloody _knew_ it."

"Wait, wait," Paul said, raising a hand and shaking his head firmly. "It's not-"

"No, but I was right, wasn't I?"

"George, calm it for a moment, would you?"

"Sorry, I'm just..." George peered closely at him, astonishment still laden in his expression. "You and John, then? Really?"

Paul let his head fall back against the side of the sofa, bringing a hand up to shelter his eyes. His heart felt about half-ready to beat through his shirt. Since when it had been so bloody hard for him to talk to anyone? He took a deep, centering breath; after all, it was still just George, and it was just John they were talking about. Two old Liverpool lads. His mates for years. A simple conversation. He planted his hands firmly in the carpet and opened his eyes again.

"Me and John, erm...yeah. Yes. Sort of. Hard to explain."

"Like-"

"Like..." he trailed off, mumbling, cheeks positively aflame. "He kissed me, sort of...erm. Twice." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Three times, actually."

It took him a moment to be able to meet George's gaze, but when he did, his eyes were absolutely agog. There was a strange smile framed on his face, canine tooth poking over his lip. He looked pretty ridiculous, frankly. Like a cartoon character. This, too, oddly reassured Paul, and he took another shaky breath, splaying his hands out as though expecting a response.

"Well?" he said. "What do you think?"

"Paul..." he said, shaking his head. "I bloody _knew_ it!"

"Oh, god," he groaned, burying his face in his hands again. "I knew telling you was a rubbish idea."

"Jesus, I- I'm sorry, I understand that this has probably been incredibly hard for you to deal with, but...Paul!" he shouted, shaking his head excitedly. "I've- I was right! For all these bloody years, I've been right!"

"How many bloody years?" he asked, leaning forward. "And wait, do you- have you thought I was _gay_ , or-"

"Gay for bloody _John_ , sure."

"I'm-" he began, but closed his mouth promptly. "Listen. I'm not- it's not exactly like that, alright, and it's-"

"Well, it's _kind_ of gay, Paul-"

"-it's not gay, actually, and-"

"Well, you kissed, didn't you?" he clarified, raising his eyebrows. He paused a beat, then rolled his eyes, continuing, "Or, sorry, _he_ kissed _you_ , right? Ol' Paulie had _no_ hand in any of it-"

"Fine, call it bloody whatever," Paul snapped, crossing his arms over his chest and falling back with a huff. He stared over at George; the expression of not-so-quiet astonishment was still painted across his face, but something gentler seemed to be overtaking. He grimaced, and reached over to put his hand atop Paul's.

"Okay," George said.

"Okay?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Okay, what?"

"Paul," he began, rolling his eyes again. "I'm sorry for giving you shit. Really. I'm..." He folded his lips into a funny smile. "Well, you know how I am. And I was right, but I'm sorry for going on about it." He tilted his head. "And I hope that if anything, all this proves that I don't think of you any differently, or-"

"Oh, fuck, don't bloody pull that!" he snapped again, wrenching his hand away. "This isn't- it's not a bloody... _after-school special_ or something, George, it's...it's...it's my bloody _life_ , alright? And it's going up in _shit!_ Fucking _flames!_ " He felt a breath expand in his chest, something speed up inside of him. "I am- I fucking _cheated_ on Jane! And- and we're getting bloody married in, like, _seven_ weeks? And I- four _bloody_ years with her, George, and I had never even _dreamed_ of cheating on Jane, really, and I know what you bloody think of her, but I never, ever...and then John just comes back into my life, and..." He shook his head in absolute disbelief. "I have no bloody idea what's even happened. It's like everything I've ever known has been sucked up into a tornado. I can't see the ground, my feet aren't on the Earth, everything's flying around me and I kissed _John bloody Lennon!"_

He was out of breath after that small rant, and to fill the sudden void of conversation he grappled blindly for his glass of whiskey. Wordlessly, George passed him the bottle and watched without any comment as he struggled to refill his glass with trembling hands. Whiskey splashed on to the carpet, and a meek "sorry" slipped from his lips before he could think to stop it. It was at this that George placed his hand once more over Paul's, and this time, he let it remain.

"Paul," he began again. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head, letting his eyes fall sheepishly to the carpet. "It's fine, George, really..." He sighed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to go off like that. I guess I've just had...a lot pent up, I guess." He gave a small laugh. "I guess, right?"

"Yeah, maybe," George said, giving a lopsided smile. "Well. Drink up, Paul."

They clinked their glasses together, looking at each other grimly, downing the rest of each of their glasses in one swallow. George shuddered, shaking his head a bit, then set his glass down firmly on the carpet. His eyebrows were furrowed deeply again, and he looked over to Paul.

"I've got to say, though," he began, pressing his first two knuckles to his lips. "I can't say that I completely understand the extended tornado metaphor. I mean, it's a little Wizard of Oz. If there's something extrinsically significant about that I think I might not, uh, be in on that, or-"

"Oh, fuck off," he muttered, pouring himself more whiskey. He caught George's gaze, then just laughed. "Jesus Christ. You really are just...bloody incorrigible, Geo."

"I try," he said with a shrug. "But, really, seriously, Paul. I'm..." He folded his lips. "I wish you had told me more of this. It's not good for the spirit to have all of that stopped up inside of you. Really."

"Mm, spiritual constipation."

"Exactly."

"Sounds quite serious."

"You know, you're joking, but it really is, Paul."

"Right."

George kept shaking his head. "So, you haven't told anyone else about this, yeah?"

He sighed, twirling his glass one-handed and watching the light refract inside the liquid. "Yeah, no. Just you."

"When did it, erm, happen?" he asked, then paused. "Well...if you want to talk about it, I suppose."

"No, it's..." he sighed again, brushing the hair off his forehead. "I suppose it's probably good to talk about it." He set his shoulders, taking a sip of whiskey. "Erm, the first time John kissed me...well, that was- that day I came to spend the night here?"

"It was then?" George said, eyes widening. "I-"

"Don't even say that you knew it, George. Seriously."

"Paul-"

"So, yes, he kissed me then, and- and then again, at that dinner party at the Lennon's-"

"Oh my god, Paul-"

"And then..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Today, erm. Although, um..." He blinked back against something he was not completely sure of, and drew the back of his hand across his forehead. The insides of his mind were starting to slosh a bit. Snatches of his conversation with John earlier swirled about, the conversation they'd had before he'd stormed out- or had he been kicked out? He took another sip of whiskey, and wasn't so sure either way.

"Say no more," George said, raising a hand up. "Sorry, I just- I don't need the dirty details."

"Right," he said, and took another nervous sip. "Um, so, yeah. That...that's pretty much it."

George seemed to take this information in stride, and leaned back a bit, staring up at the ceiling with glazed eyes. Processing, Paul figured. He always got this way when thinking, and this was clearly taking a bit of thinking for him. After a minute of ceiling-staring and contemplative whiskey-swirling, he leveled his gaze to meet Paul's, and a smile broke across his face that could almost have been described as _impish_.

"What?" Paul said, narrowing his eyebrows. "What is-"

"I'm sorry, I just-" George shook his head. "Can I just say it one more time? Please? I promise I won't after that, but I really just need to say it at least once more, I think, before I can say anything properly nice and mature and helpful."

Paul groaned, and brought a hand over his eyes again. George seemed to take this as good a yes as any, continuing cheerfully, " _I bloody knew it_." He laughed, and thwacked Paul in the side of the arm. "Okay, that's all. Really. Done now. Now for the nice and mature and helpful advice, okay?"

"I'm on pins and needles waiting to hear what it could be, George," he said flatly, even though, truthfully, he sort of _was_. He looked up at him, prompting him with a tilt of the head.

"Well," George began. "I guess it sort of depends on how serious you think it all was. Like, was this a once-off thing, like you were drunk and randy, or was this...I've-been-in-love-with-you-since-I-was-14 type, uh, thing?"

"I am not in bloody love with him," Paul snarled, although he felt a punch to the gut as he said it. "But, erm...probably the second option, anyway," he admitted sheepishly. "It wasn't- I mean, it was serious, is what I mean. At least- well, on my end, and...and on his end, too." He squeezed his eyes shut again. "He told me some pretty heady stuff. Just about the past ten years, why he didn't call and all."

"And what was his reasoning for that?"

He clenched his fist hard into the carpet, tilting his head downwards slightly as though that would mitigate any of the critical levels of awkwardness and shame he was feeling in that moment. "Um, well...he sort of said that he'd, well..." He took a deep breath, speaking quickly, "He thought that if he'd kept my number, he wouldn't have been able to, er...'stop himself', is how he phrased it."

George's eyes were practically flying saucers by this point. "'Stop himself'? That's how he phrased it?"

"Yep, pretty much."

"Jesus Christ, Paul," George said in disbelief, chest rising fast. "You really weren't kidding about this being serious, huh?"

"Erm, no, not really."

"Did he..." George tilted his head forward, as though this were a covert operation. "Did he, well, did he tell you that he loved you?"

"No!" he said, swatting at George's hand, although, once more, a certain pang in his heart twinged at that; he was careful to ignore it. "We're not bloody teenagers, anymore, Jesus. It's not...like that. It's just..." He groaned. "Fuck. I don't even know what it is." But then he paused, another snippet of conversation from that afternoon floating to the forefront of his mind: _"Just get the fuck out, Paul, if this isn't what you-"_

His stomach swooped out from under him, and he continued on, voice thin and cracking, "Well, I don't really know if we're much of anything any longer, anyway. So maybe it's all a moot point." He shook his head quickly. "I guess I shouldn't have told you."

"Well, regardless of whatever you two are, you're still going to have to tell Jane."

"What the fuck?" he said, raising his head up to look in disbelief just as George was descending into a fit of laughter.

"Sorry- no, no, that was a joke. Sorry," he said, sniffling through another laugh. "Although-"

"I cannot bloody well tell Jane," he exclaimed, knocking a hand backwards and sending his glass on its side. "Oh. Shit."

"Is the carpet okay?" George said, peering half-heartedly over Paul's shoulder. "Ah, no. It's fine. Get more to drink, though. And listen, Paul, I know it seems a bit ridiculous, but I really don't think it would be the sign of a good marriage to begin it with a weird gay infidelity-"

"Don't call it that," he muttered, picking up the whiskey bottle and pouring himself another generous serving. "Seriously, George. Please do not call it that."

"Well, it is sort of weird, Paul, I mean you've known this guy since you were-"

"It's not bloody gay."

"Mate, I really think you should realize it is a little-"

"It's not," he said, loudly, firmly, giving George the sternest glare he could manage. "George. Seriously."

"Okay, fine," he said exasperatedly, putting his hands up. "Not gay. Whatever. But- do you get my main point? You're getting married to Jane very soon, and- okay, I know you don't necessarily want to know exactly what I think of Jane-"

"Like I don't already."

"Okay, haha. But really. Regardless of Jane's...whatever...you're getting married to this woman, but, the facts are, basically, that you've swapped spit three times now with a bloke, and that's not exactly-"

"Jesus, why do you have to keep phrasing everything like that?"

"God, Paul, shut up and just listen, alright! You're getting married, Paul, and I think most people go into those things with plans to stay together until death. So, unless you want that hanging over your soul for the rest of your life, I would suggest you either talk to her about it, or..."

"Or what?" he said, raising an eyebrow. George just folded his mouth into a thin line and gave Paul what seemed to be a knowing look. "Seriously, or what?" He shook his head. "I'm getting married to her, George. Regardless of whatever. We are getting married. I know that. I'm not throwing away my future on..." He trailed off, and was brought back to earlier that afternoon. John's head on his chest, John's hands in his hair, John's lips on his lips. He sighed, and closed his eyes. "We're getting married. This is what I have to do. And John and I aren't even..." He opened his eyes once more, giving George a trying look. "Well, like I said, we're not really anything anymore, so."

"What you 'have to do', Paul, you're bloody 26!"

"Fuck, I love her, alright?" he shouted back. "No matter what happens, I actually _do_ bloody love her, and we've been together for four years, and I made a promise to her. This is just- this is just what's best for my life, yeah? This is what you're supposed to do."

"Jesus Christ, Paul, you sound like a bloody 1950s housewife."

"Shut up! It's...it's just _logical_ , basically. It's logical, because we love each other, and I like living with her, and...and..."

"And what?"

"I don't know. Fuck. I don't..." he trailed off again, unable to keep thoughts orderly, present, in his mind. They floated away, escaping him the moment he grasped for them. His mind was unwinding, he could tell, and the further it went along, the more it was crowded with images of John. Slivers of John flitting through his thoughts: his smile, the way he laughed. The feel of his hands at the small of his back. His voice when he sang, soft, so much softer than in real life.

That was what it had been this afternoon, Paul realized, when he had stayed instead of left. That was what had fucked everything up. If he had just left, if he had just done the right thing, he wouldn't be feeling this bloody way. ( _You wouldn't have fought, either_ , some voice in the back of his head piped up.) He'd still be home with Jane, asleep by her side, happy as could be.

He followed that thread: how long would he have had to gone back to unravel John from his life? A few weeks ago, if he had never taken John's number, if he had never let him lock him in that bathroom, if he had never gone along with him and let him back into his life: would things be better now? Or did he have to go back further than that? Back to 1994, if he had never gone to that grocery store and seen John, if he had stayed with his aunt all day, if he had never given John his phone number, would he still have spent ten years waiting for him? Or did he have to go back even further than that; back to 1991, back to that blisteringly hot summer in Liverpool, to start unraveling everything. _Fixing_ everything. Should he have never befriended Ivan? Never agreed to go with him to meet John? Never asked John to put him in that stupid band?

A series of choices, spread out across an entire lifetime, that had led the two of them to this exact spot. Seeing it like that, it was easy to trace different paths, imagine different lifetimes lived in the exact same vacancies as this. He closed his eyes, and wondered how easy it might have been to avoid all this pain, this heartbreak.

But maybe that wasn't what he wanted.

"I think I need to lay down for a bit," he said, faintly, and it was the last thing he remembered before his head hit the carpet.

...

_He was 14, again. He wasn't exactly sure how it had happened; he didn't remember falling asleep, ending up here. But he knew it, deep down inside of him, that he was 14 years old, sleeping in the attic of his aunt's house in Liverpool. Air clung to his face, choked him; the heat in that tiny, stuffy attic was oppressive, and it was suddenly all-known to him that he needed to get up and open the window. His body floated across the room to the little circle window; hands unthinking did open the latch. His body heaved forward through the window, rematerialized on the ground. Cold dirt bit into his palms._

_John was standing on the sidewalk in front of him. He had his back to Paul, facing the street. He seemed stenciled upon the night._

_"John!" he cried out, stumbling to his feet. "John, what are we doing here?"_

_Still, he did not turn around. He blinked against the heat, the dark, floating forward towards John. John, slight and waifish, something out of a Dickens novel in an old ratty flannel and shaggy hair. The faint glow of a cigarette illuminated him from behind._

_"John, c'mon, mate. Turn around. It's me."_

_John, still, did not turn around. He took a step forward into the street._

_"What are you doing?"_

_He took another step forward. Paul, craning his neck, could see the distant light of a car down the road, approaching steadily, steadily, all the same. He found himself lurching forward towards John once more, bringing his hands down on his shoulders and shaking him._

_"John, listen to me!"_

_But, still, he did not turn around. The lights were growing closer, brighter._

_"Why won't you listen to me?" he screamed, pushing and shoving and kicking at him, and still, still, going nowhere. "Bloody hell, John, just listen to me! I'm trying to save us!"_

_Sirens wailed in the streets. Lights bounced off of the houses, approaching steadily, steadily, illuminating everything but John's solemn figure, dark and solitary in the middle of the street. A vacancy where a person should have been. A black hole._

_"It's time to choose, Paul," John said, and it was only as the car barreled into him that he looked back over his shoulder. His smile was taunting, and he knew, then, exactly what they were. And that same instant, Paul felt something inside him lurch forward, something-_

...

"Paul!"

Someone was shaking him. He lurched forward with a groan, feeling all his senses flood back to him quickly, sharply, electrifying his synapses. Everything was too close, too bright. He was still being shaken.

"Quit it, would you?" he grumbled, dragging a hand across his face. There was a thick dusting of stubble clinging to his jaw. In all of this, a jabbing thought pointed out that he might need a shave. He squeezed his eyes shut, as though this might block it out, and rolled over onto his back. He opened his eyes; Pattie was standing above him, wide-eyed, lips twitching. "Oh. Pattie. Ugh...uhh...mornin'?"

"Oh, god, you're alive," she said, and collapsed onto the couch beside him. The couch, he realized, was where he'd fallen asleep again. Almost immediately following this realization was a dull ache blooming along the notches of his spine, the stretch of muscle at his lower back. Cramps in his legs shot out for attention. He groaned again and buried his face in his hands. He was going to be feeling this night for the next few days, it seemed.

"Am I...I'm at your house, aren't I?"

"Mm, yeah. Do you remember anything from last night?"

"Ugh..."

Random thoughts and pieces from last night clunked about in his head, jostling for attention. A smarting pain right between his eyes realized itself quite quickly after this, and he brought his fingers up to pinch the spot. Last night? Too many thoughts to sort out, although he was mostly certain there had been something involving a bottle of whiskey and the living room floor.

"I...drank," he began, slowly, and looked over to Pattie for confirmation. She'd been staring worryingly at the floor, but her eyes caught his, and she nodded exaggeratedly.

"Yes, erm, you and George, you had a drink. I got home, after, er...you'd already passed out."

"Oh," he said. Faintly, that seemed accurate; it was generally a logical conclusion to a night spent drinking a lot of whiskey at what was maybe too quick a pace. But wherever that memory was supposed to be was simply a gaping blackness, like a Swiss cheese hole. He shook his head and covered his eyes with his hands again. "Um...I didn't make too much of a scene, did I?"

"Oh, no, George said you were mostly compliant." Her gaze grew strangely distant. "He said you were awfully mopey, though. I didn't..."

"He didn't say anything else, did he?" he asked, feeling a yawn open up in his stomach as more memories returned to him; particularly that of soppily, drunkenly telling George about the John situation. Not that he was entirely regretful of that, he didn't think, but he wasn't exactly in the place to be talking about it to Pattie, right then. Thankfully, she shook her head no.

"No, no, he didn't," she said, then paused. "He just left for work, by the way. Sorry. He didn't want to wake you. He said he would talk to George Martin."

Paul distractedly nodded, feeling for all the world to have given two shits about the studio right then. Pain was a trail he was tracing across his entire body; a dull thump in the back of his skull, a muted taste of iron on his tongue. A fuzzy mind. Swiss cheese holes, all aligning and letting things fall between them. Certain things, important things: he was sure there was something big he was missing.

"But when we went out last night..." he began, then promptly clamped his mouth shut again. Pattie looked over at him expectantly, tilting her head and furrowing her eyebrows.

"You two went out last night?" she asked. "George didn't-"

"No, no," he murmured, drawing a hand to the top of his head. "No, that wasn't..."

The last memory that clung to his brain, encasing it tightly like a thin layer of saran-wrap, was the very certain and concrete vision of being back in Liverpool last night, in the street outside his aunt's house. His fingers tingled with pins and needles. _That hadn't been real._ Of course it hadn't been, he thought, shaking his head and cursing himself for being so thick. A dream, he realized, was what it had been. No car crashes, no Liverpool. No John. He pinched the spot between his eyes again.

"Um...sorry, Pattie," he said, slurredly, tongue thick in his mouth. "Could I trouble you for a glass of water?"

"Water?" she repeated, eyes wide still, then shook her head. "No, no, of course not. Is there anything else I could get you, actually?"

"No, just...just water. Thanks," he mumbled, pulling himself up into a sitting position on the couch as Pattie flitted off to the kitchen. His head pounded dully, as though an 808 had been flicked on in the back of his skull. Some dim, thrumming beat, marching ceaselessly to a tuneless rhythm. It roused the furthest reaches of his pain, and he was stricken by an encompassing sense of dread and discomfort that felt just about ready to consume him by the time Pattie had returned with a plastic cup of water.

He took it greedily in two hands, gulping most of it down in one go. Pattie sat down beside him again, peering at him beneath her fringe of golden hair with a strange mix of pity and regret, as though he were a squirrel she had hit with her car.

"Feel any better?" she asked softly, pointing to the cup.

"Yeah, loads," he grimaced, tipping the cup to her. "Thanks. Really, thanks."

"No problem, really," she said, then thinned her mouth. She looked contemplative, as though debating whether to say something or not. It was an expression he'd been accustomed to the past few days, and one he was, truthfully, already getting to be pretty sick of seeing. He set his cup down on the carpet beside him, then folded his hands in his lap.

"What's wrong?" he prompted, and Pattie looked back over to him. Her expression took on something more obviously tinged with sadness, lips curling downwards at the edges. When she spoke, her voice was clearly strained.

"I just..." she began, then looked back down to the floor. "You're alright, aren't you, Paul?"

"Alright? he echoed, laughing strangely. "How do you mean? I mean, I'm a bit hungover at the moment, but I'm sure I'll-"

"No, not like-" She cut herself off, shaking her head again. "I think it's more of a _general_ alright, I'm asking about, s'all."

"Oh," he said, feeling an onrush of blood to his face. "Erm...well. Yeah. I mean, yes, I think I'm...generally...alright. I think? Is that, like-"

"George said you and Jane were having more issues," Pattie said, quickly, and a sudden annoyance sprung in his mind. _Bloody George_. Always on his anti-Jane warpath, seemingly. He sighed, deeply, looking over to Pattie. Her eyes were so ridiculously big, sometimes. It was hard to feel anything but warmth for her. Still, though.

"Er...just the usual stuff," he said, bracingly, not feeling even slightly inclined to speak on his and Jane's issues in his current state. The imminence of his dream- or nightmare, whatever it had been- earlier that morning hung over his head like a guillotine blade. Even barring the terms he and John had parted on the previous evening, he had an itch to draw his phone out, type those eleven numbers so very dear to his heart.

Those terms they'd parted on, of course, hadn't necessarily been the most favorable. That was trickling back to him slower, understandably; there was a nearly two-hour gap in his memory, beginning sometime after he'd agreed to stay with John and then coming home. Not necessarily a gap, if he was being honest with himself; a hole filled with shards, all reflecting little bits of their fight he was more than ready to forget.

_"You're a coward," John spat, slamming his fist against the door. "Bloody cowardice, Paul. That's all it is."_

He blinked. Pattie was still staring over at him, eyebrows drawn together expectantly. He shook his head.

"It really wasn't much of anything," he mumbled, drawing his knees to his chest. "Nothing at all. Barely a fight, really."

He closed his eyes. He supposed if he repeated it enough, maybe it'd just as easily be true.

...

Yesterday afternoon had started off so nice, really. That was partially why the turn of events had felt so world-shattering, but he supposed that was always the way it went with him and John. In some ways, he realized, there was some part of each other that was always going to be teenagers around each other. Curbed by their personal history, constrained to mentalities that were supposed to have been left behind quite some time ago. They thought they had gotten smarter, of course. Smarter, savvier, more mature. But the truth, in the end, the same ugly truth that was destroying them now, was that they had _never_ changed, not really.

So, how had the story gone this time?

John had told him to leave, to go back to Jane, the first time. And then Paul- stupid, sentimental, sappy Paul- had looked back over his shoulder. His infernal mistake, even if it hadn't seemed like it at the time. He'd chalked it up to bad goodbyes. And there, the absolute killer: the sight of John, forehead against the fridge, weeping bitterly. Paul was never going to be anything more than a stupid, sentimental, sappy fool in the end, it seemed.

And so he had stayed.

His infernal mistake, he chided himself once more, replaying the events in his mind. Not that things would have been much better between John and him now if he had left right then, but things would still have been left unsaid. Maybe this would have been the timeline where he could pull his phone out now and call him, hear that laugh that smarted against his heart and he could tell him how much he meant to him and how sorry he was.

A snippet of the previous day's fight caught on that thought - _(a coward Paul that's all you are a coward)-_ but he shook his head as if to brush it away.

He leaned back on the couch and let his thumb rest over the well-worn number pad of his flip-phone, mind swirling, turning and replaying. _A coward_ , John had called him. Maybe that was where it had all gone wrong. He had stayed, and he was glad he did, at least at the beginning, because he'd gotten John to stop crying, and they'd sat on the floor of the hallway, not kissing or anything but simply remaining near each other and _being there_ for one another, and Paul had thought that if he could just freeze that moment in time forever he could die happy. But then John had to go and say what he had about Jane, and he'd pulled away, just for a moment, and then it had begun.

_"How can you still be with her?" John had said, biting into it, really, head cocked as though he were really earnestly asking Paul this._

_"How can you still be with Cynthia?" he'd shot back, thinking he was really outclassing him on that one, and then-_

And then John had told him that, functionally, he and Cynthia really _weren't_ together any longer, and that her trip to Hoylake was quite a bit more than just a family visit. It was her preparing to leave him.

Then he had said something: how had he followed that doozy? Three words, three uncomfortably familiar words- John's hands in his, his forehead against his, his lips pressing down lightly, and those three little terrifying words- and-

_"I...John, don't say that," Paul had said, mumbled it, really, feeling like someone had reached into his chest and grabbed his heart. "Really, don't...you don't..."_

He had wanted to clarify that statement, but it became harder and harder to articulate the more they fought. What he had meant to say was: _Don't say that unless you really mean it._ But the terrifying, terrifying truth, the one he kept circling back to, the one he couldn't even admit to himself

_(a coward a coward)_

The truth was that John probably _did_ mean it.

Not that that could even be qualitative, Paul figured. There wasn't anything in their relationship to warrant anything even close to love, he reasoned, dissecting and laying our the past 12 years. A few aborted encounters, mostly harmless, meaningless, chaste, spread out over a decade. Missed phone calls, unfinished songs. Nothing of substance. Nothing that could mean _those three words_ , he reckoned.

But the _glint_ in John's eyes when he had said that. The intensity, positively burning in there, completely and absolutely focused in on him. Something that was soft and destructive in equal strides. To be the receiving end of that intensity was absolutely terrifying, and when John had said that, when he had asked him why he hadn't left Jane yet, perhaps he really had acted like a coward. The truth of the matter was that he _was_ a bloody coward, probably, but he didn't know if there was anything he could do about it at this point.

His fingers brushed over his phone once more, and he felt his stomach flip. Neither the alcohol from last night nor his foul mood were doing particularly nice things to his insides. He thought briefly about standing and going to the kitchen to find some sort of pills, but his limbs still didn't feel quite cooperative, yet. There was shame broiled inside there, too; he was sure Pattie didn't necessarily enjoy some idiot collapsing drunk in her living room all the time, nonetheless rifling through her cabinets for drugs. He could hear her, dimly, from the next room, computer keys clacking. The kitchen could have been a million miles away for all he was concerned.

_"You should probably leave now," John had said, voice strained to the point of breaking. "Seriously. Now."_

He flipped his phone open, typed out John's phone number with his thumb. His eyes wavered on the tiny screen for a moment, numbers slurring together, before he pressed down without a second thought on the call button.

Although he immediately regretted it, he held the phone up to his ear and left it there, not even daring to breathe as he heard it buzz. He didn't know what he would even say if John picked up. He tried to remember the last thing he'd said to John before he'd stormed out on to the manicured streets of St. John's Woods, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks even as he yelled over his shoulder.

_"It's not fair, John," he had cried. "You can't make me choose like this. I can't- I'm not going to choose between you."_

The phone continued buzzing. Still, he did not breathe.

_"Well, I suppose it's pretty fucking obvious what your choice is, then," John had spat. "So just...just leave, Paul. Just leave."_

The line went silent. He bit his bottom lip reflexively, hanging on to the silence, when John's voice bloomed in his ear.

_"Hello-"_

"John! Oh god, I-"

 _"This is John Lennon of Arnold-Woodall Relations,"_ the voice message droned out. Paul felt his heart plop down into his stomach, blood rush to his cheeks. A fury suddenly gripped him; a fury at himself, a fury at John. He wanted to scream and smash his phone into a million bits against the wall. But he didn't. He couldn't, really. This was simply life. Maybe if it had been a movie, he would have thrown his phone against a wall; really, if this had been a movie, he would have sprinted through the streets of London, all the way to John's beautiful empty home and pounded on the door until he came out and swept him into a magnificent kiss while the invisible orchestra swelled and the credits rolled.

_"You know what to do. Ta."_

The line clicked dead. Paul let the phone fall, limp, into his lap.

This wasn't a movie. It wasn't an episode of Jane's silly TV show, or one of his half-written love songs. Those people weren't allowed to be cowards. They followed their hearts and possessed no shame or doubt. They walked through life unafraid, and didn't collapse drunk on their friend's couches, and went to work even when they didn't want to. They loved the people they wanted to love.

Paul closed his eyes. He felt the world turn around him, slowly, slowly. 

_Coward,_ he thought, the last thought he had before he felt himself sinking back into the couch. _That's all you are._

_A coward._


End file.
